


Solace

by Leona2016



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leona2016/pseuds/Leona2016
Summary: John Thornton and Margaret Hale struggle with their own ghosts of the past, present and future, but what if they found solace in each other's company when they needed it? What if their mutual attraction proved too strong to resist? And if they do give in to it, will they lose or gain the other's love? A retelling of North and South, book and series based.(A/N: posting this on ffdotnet too but lost my muse a little bit, this is an attempt to find her back....and hopefully increase some healthy, motivating pressure for me to continue writing because I love this couple so much! ;p)





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter 1 **

_New Scenes and Faces_

She could still taste the smoke on her lips, feel her bones rattle with the cadence of the crowd moving as one across the station, and hear the shrill whistle of the train as it left them stranded in Milton. Tired with the journey and even more with the prospect of finding a new home in a strange place she continued to listlessly observe a finely woven cobweb clinging onto a forgotten corner of the only window in their cramped and sober hotel room on New Street.

The glass was so grubby it was impossible for Margaret to properly see through it, making the hazy, unclear figures moving beyond it appear like mere specters though their purposeful treads and steadfastly upheld chins at once told her they belonged in this manufacturer town in the North, whereas she was but a poor, lost and directionless phantom from the South that so obviously did not.    

Her old life and her new one were unfathomably far apart. It felt as if that dark chasm between the two had swallowed up all sense of the peace she had felt in returning to Helstone after gladly giving up her London life with Aunt Shaw and Cousin Edith. Now, it seemed, all she had for company were the happy memories of her childhood in the paradise that was the New Forest, though as precious as those may be to her they were fading fast and threatened to be overcast by the growing shadow of losing Henry Lennox’s friendship, by the continuing absence of her brother Frederick and above all the bleak future ahead..

The creaking of wood startled her from her numbness and she forced a smile on her face to hopefully dispel her gloomy mood long enough so her father wouldn’t see how she truly felt before determinedly turning around.

Margaret froze when her eyes found not her father but a tall man that she supposed must look completely ordinary and yet she couldn’t help but feel he was unlike any she had ever seen. He had a sculpted face with a pronounced but not broad jaw, a finely carved nose and high, cut cheekbones which were softened somewhat by modest sideburns.  

To her surprise Margaret felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth when her eyes shot up and spotted some wayward strands on his scalp that had escaped his neatly combed and strictly divided hair and arched all the way to one temple, one or two even poking out willfully. It gave the stranger an incredibly boyish and young appearance and yet everything else about him contradicted this.

He stood tall with both feet planted firmly on the floor, his chin covered in a hint of stubble and his dark brows although somewhat furrowed at the moment looked like they were used to being set and stern. Most striking of all, though, the inky, black color of his hair formed a staggering contrast with his eyes that were a deep blue like that of a lake. It was their enigmatic depth that caused a tingling to crawl up her spine, fully rousing her from her lethargic reminiscing and it felt like breathing for the first time after having long been underwater.

The silence between the two of them stretched a moment longer and Margaret stood unmoving under his piercing gaze, the expression he wore unreadable but intense. Courage rising at the intimidation, either intentional or accidental, she steeled her own into one of neutral but not impolite indifference and simply observed him with as impatient an air as she could muster without having to put it into words or force her to be the first to speak.

Somehow she did not wish to give him the satisfaction of her acknowledging him first though it took more effort than she cared to admit to herself to repress a wild fluttering in her chest that instantly gainsaid this resolve, her heart stubbornly advocating what her head did not. 

And so her voice almost spilled over her parted lips as Margaret stared back as if locked to those strangely fixed and yet wavering sapphire orbs.

Similarly rooted to the spot by the round, heavy-lidded eyes gleaming a deep brown either in defiance or languid curiosity as they remained trained on him, John could not summon the power needed to look away. 

Had he entered the hotel in his usual decisive manner, executing minute control over all his movements –all exuding purpose, none nonchalance– now he stood like one entranced on the threshold to a small room he had been directed to as belonging to the Hales. John had expected to see a middle aged man, the friend he was to help on Mr. Bell’s behalf, but instead he had stumbled upon his daughter. 

And it felt like stumbling. It wasn’t a sensation he was overly familiar with. He had fallen in life. More times than he cared to remember in fact. Starting with that fateful day his father ended his own life and chained that of the family of tree he left behind to one of poverty, strife and hard work. But he had risen to his feet, had walked on, every single time circumstances had forced him down on his knees. But he had never stumbled. Until now.

Miss Margaret Hale was not the little girl he had thought she would be. She was a young woman and yet wholly transcending that distinction. An uncharacteristic color almost crept on his cheeks when he realized how he had taken the liberty of observing her when she had still been unaware of his presence. It had struck him then how the simple dress she wore flowed to the floor, hem hovering but an inch above gnarled floorboards, and giving him the strange impression she was floating. The only thing that seemingly anchored her in place was an exquisite Indian shawl that was draped around her slender form as if she was a princess from some exotic, centuries old tale and had simply leapt off the dusty pages into this world. _His_ world. The fact that it clearly did not seem to be _hers_ had only increased his fascination.

And so, having taken in the sight of her, he had well and truly stumbled. Not in the literal sense of the word, but internally his heart had skipped a long beat before drumming rapidly against his ribs. He had felt instantly unbalanced, both inside and outside of himself, not understanding why he could not move, why he was robbed of all agency.   

John supposed it was because there was something regal about her stance and posture that had given him pause. Even when he had only seen her profile it had been powerful enough to steal the air from his very lungs. _Statuesque_. He felt a fool for mentally conjuring up the one word that seemed to describe her in that one moment and even more so for the reverence he felt surging through him as he did.

The stunned state locking his limbs into place had lifted gradually but he –irrationally– regretted the wood creaking underfoot as a result now it had made her turn around. The heavy folds in which the shawl hung over her arms –gathering in the nooks of her elbows– had rippled with the movement, the rich colors splashed on it infinitely surpassing that of any rainbow the gray sky he saw every day had to offer.

Seeing her face fully now John only felt more ensnared by its sheer, almost haunting beauty. Framed by chestnut brown hair tied up in a loose bun her features were not a perfect symmetry or even that striking, nor was her complexion all ivory skin or smoothness, but there was something in the sylphlike lines of it, in the soft lips, small nose and guardedly inquisitive expression that made him feel like a loyal subject entrapped and powerless in the radiance of his empress.

It made him feel beyond uncomfortable, he was used to assuming an authoritative role, of taking the lead confidently and decisively and yet even though she was silent and waited for him to speak there was no mistaking that spark lighting up those warm eyes now the color of caramel as they were directed at him, nor did he misunderstand her chin subtly tilted up and her brows lifted just enough to send him a clear message. Her silence was not passive but commanding and he trembled and obeyed.

“Forgive me, Miss Hale, I have come for your father but I fear I have disturbed you instead in my haste to enter and settle the matter I came here to discuss.” He explained, for the first time in his life not fully trusting his voice to come out but feeling disproportionally relieved now it had, and it had sounded like himself too. He didn’t like that he had apparently taken off his hat without him noticing it and had been fingering the rim like a nervous schoolboy about to recite a lesson not very diligently learned.

“He went out just now, I am sorry that you have missed him, Mr..?”

Hearing her voice was magical, it was like the painted portrait of some mythical figure he longed to know had all of a sudden gained animation and finally spoke to him, acknowledging his existence, his craving to gain access to that privilege of talking to her.

What she said, however, and despite his elation, made him feel a fool for not introducing himself properly and in the earnest, terse way he was accustomed to do. After all, it was irrational to think she would have remembered his name even if it had been mentioned to her that he would come, whereas he had instantly known she was Miss Margaret Hale and he felt strangely irked at being forgotten by her even though he was of no consequence to her and neither should she be to him.

“Thornton, begging your pardon, Miss Hale. My name is John Thornton. As his business associate Mr. Bell has asked me to look out for properties here in Milton on your family’s behalf.”

“I see. It is possible that father has told me of you but I cannot now recall if he did. Either way, I thank you for your trouble and it only makes me regret all the more my father is presently not here, though it should not be long before he returns. Won’t you sit down and wait?”

He was busy, he had no time to sit down and be idle until Mr. Hale would come back, he loathed waiting at the best of times, and yet would he normally have either curtly reclined the offer or sat down restless to be on his way again he now took a seat feeling none of those things. Her presence was soothing and intoxicating at the same time, he could not even wonder at that seeming contradiction and simply allowed himself a moment to revel in it instead.

John also knew that moment she would never admire him like he instantly admired her. _How could she_? He felt exposed for the crude, rough-around-the-edges manufacturer that he was. In her presence he wanted to be more than that. He wanted to be worthy of every glance, of every word that she bestowed on him without seeming to notice the effect it had on him or the gifts that they were..

_This was folly_! He was a man of business. A magistrate and a man of high standing within the community. A man of consequence even in this part of the world, though it went against his nature to boast or gloat about this. But he _was_ proud of all that, thanks to his mother’s guidance, he had achieved. He would not be shaken by this woman who had come into his life like a fairy swooping down from her lofty cloud to mock the simple, mortal man he was.

Even so, he still cursed the sound of footsteps when they came, indicating Mr. Hale had returned and he would soon be deprived of her sole attention. Accepting it for the challenge that it was, for the battle he would wage against himself, John fervently hoped Miss Hale would accompany her father to the property they were to view in Crampton if only so he could prove to himself he _could_ regain control of himself. And he _would_..!


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter 2 **

_First Impressions_

As they made their way through Milton she felt the somber, gray surroundings leech away at the colors she wore as if the bland bricks of buildings and pale rags of workers were jealous of it and wanted some for their own with an almost ravenous intent. As indistinct and harmless as the lifeless hues around her were, they made Margaret clutch her shawl as if she needed protection from their dreary dullness and she wondered if she would ever succeed in keeping them from seeping into her very veins.

The streets were bustling and made up a true maze of cramped squares, small, sad parks no one seemed inclined to take a turn in and little shops competing with one another to ensnare passers-by. Always looming in the background there was yet another cotton mill or other factory spewing black smoke and emitting the most odious drilling, ringing, clanging and rumbling sounds that pressed against her eardrums.

Margaret became almost instantly disorientated by the confusing cacophony of noises and the constant blur of movement and she could tell by father’s hunched shoulders and the way his eyes flitted nervously left and right that he was too. But despite the fact that she herself felt increasingly more in danger of forgetting the way back after each successive turn or cross, Mr. Thornton not once gave the impression he was even remotely intimidated by the busy town he navigated through with calculated steps and unwavering determination. Maybe it was because he exuded such surety with his uninterrupted stride and gaze set on the way ahead that people instinctively made room for him to pass or recognized in him the same sense of purpose that they themselves steered by to get to their destination.

The boisterous calls of barrow men accompanied the three of them when, at long last, they reached a crowded street with a dead end, and at that end waited what was supposedly to be their new house. Sidestepping baskets not completely woven and crates with eggs, meat and vegetables, Margaret and her father followed Mr. Thornton up a short flight of steps before he produced a set of keys, opened the door and let them in.  

Had she yearned for color not ten minutes ago, the glaring, clashing variety of it thrown carelessly and with excessive zeal on the walls in the drawing room they soon entered after a quick tour of the first floor –there was nothing but a dark hall, poky kitchen and dusty study– almost made her flee back outside to the monotonous shades of gray.

They had not even come to any of the bedrooms but she had already seen enough to know that her mother would abhor the house, be offended by the tucked away corner it was in on Crampton Crescent, and feel a positive and instant aversion for the town itself. _And yet here they were to live_!

It was a good thing her father had been persuaded by both her mother and Dixon to let them stay in a seaside town of no real importance to recover from the long train journey north while the two of them searched for a house here. Stepping over that threshold, knowing this is where she would spend most of her time from now on, it suddenly got frightfully real, more so than when they had packed whatever could be brought with them and had left the parsonage. And the more real it got, the more daunting too the task ahead of bearing the transition from green and beautiful Helstone to drab and ugly Milton.   

Casting a furtive glance at Mr. Thornton as he stood half with his back towards her, two things struck her that should not steal her attention away at all, preventing her too from directly looking away again. The deep black of his coat, vest and tie with the crisp, ironed white shirt underneath –Margaret also caught a glimpse of it as it escaped the sleeves and covered his wrists–  made for a rather soothing and strangely assuring combination, something her senses needed after having been so unpleasantly bombarded with the gaudy color-scheme on the walls all around.   

And then there was his voice. Having been the one to drag on and occasionally revive their short conversation at the hotel, during which he had spoken himself but rarely and when he had with monosyllabic answers or sentences seemingly averse to elaboration and constructed with economic precision not to waste any words, she had not fully let the baritone sound of it reach her ears.   

Engaged in talking to father in a businesslike but not unfriendly manner his steady stream of words now made a thrill she could not repress in time crawl over her spine, ever upwards it went until it prickled in the back of her neck. Startled, by her own reaction or the strangely captivating sound of his voice she only now discovered, Margaret whisked around, starting with no real purpose on her second round of inspection of the room she already knew she disliked. And yet, although her eyes might fly aimlessly and rather unseeing over unnaturally bright flowers and ornamental curls her ears disobeyed her will and _listened_.

There was a low pitch to his voice that made her strain to catch it and it possessed a deep quality that somehow never wavered. It was like listening to a river not snaking down a mountain but running straight through the landscape and Margaret followed its strong current whether she wanted to or not, it did not leave her with a great deal of choice.

And so she found herself not catching the words, as she was constantly moving around while they stayed in the same, fixed place, but not minding this at all. Normally it would have annoyed her like the ceaseless buzz of people chattering away at London soirees had been a source of vexation to her as the years went by with people talking a lot but not saying anything.

A little even and droning as it may be, there was nothing studied or artful about Mr. Thornton’s voice and it anchored her in this detestable place for there was something inexplicably constant about it. Not that Margaret liked becoming increasingly distracted from what she should be focusing on, nor that this stranger, her family’s first, new, acquaintance, should monopolize her father’s sole attention. Nevertheless, she latched on to the tall man’s voice as she convinced herself she was in fact imagining where the furniture should go, even amusing herself now and then in trying to distinguish any irregularities in that almost continuous hum, to discover a melody to it, anything to take her mind away from this horrible house and the prospect of living here!

Margaret stopped mid-step once she picked up the inevitable end to the enchantment robbing her of the private use of her ears in the form of an abrupt change of tone after a brief silence she had belatedly noticed, nor had she been aware Mr. Thornton had taken a determined step or two in her direction to address her.

“I am afraid I must leave you and your father, Miss Hale. But rest assured you will be in the excellent care of Mr. Donkin, here. As landlord and lifelong inhabitant of Milton he knows his way from and to this place well enough, he will make sure to deliver you back safely to your hotel.”  

She tried not to show how she had been completely oblivious to the presence of a stocky, greasy haired but polite enough looking man now shaking father’s hand. Seeing the pinching firmness and almost staccato movement of the greeting made her want to hide her own hands from having to suffer the same fate as her father’s so she clasped them together in front of her leaving no doubt as to how she would respond to ‘their’ landlord’s possible attempt to introduce himself the same way to her.

She should have known the telltale gesture would not go unnoticed though she could not decide whether it was a flicker of irritation or amusement that briefly lit up those blue eyes still trained on her as hers shot back from Mr. Donkin to Mr. Thornton. _Had he seen through her rebellious resolve not to shake hands or merely been impatient_? As earnest and unhurried as his voice had been he did radiate impatience, undoubtedly for having to wait for her to acknowledge his leave taking so he could be on his way.

But that was not what made Margaret resentful, it was the fact she felt treated unfairly now his voice had changed the moment Mr. Thornton had spoken to her instead of her  father, she had listened to it long enough to suspect it was not her imagination that made it sound more controlled, any richness and subtle variation she had thought to have detected in it not a moment ago, had left it, or was kept from it on purpose because he was now not addressing a friend of his important business associate but merely his dainty daughter.

That last though made her dip her head in a reluctant nod to release him from that troublesome obligation and the  spell Margaret had stupidly thought herself under was irrevocably broken when her pointed muteness made Mr. Thornton’s eyes acquire an almost icy hue.

Once again arrested by nearing her sheer presence alone it seemed, John hovered where he stood when there was no need to. He had said what he needed to say, excused himself properly, _and still he did not move_! The far away look in her eyes that had changed from a dreamy sort of haziness to a slightly fierier tint had stopped him. As had the hint of a frown, curled upwards mouth and clasping of her hands afterwards, he thought he could guess at the meaning behind that, as she seemed to notice Donkin only now.

_Where had her thoughts been for them to have so obviously transported her from this room to some distant realm_? _Was it thoughts of the life she had left behind but so recently_?

John stopped his wondering short, after all, despite his internal attempt at least to sympathize with her situation it seemed he was to receive nothing but a curt, wordless dismissal for his efforts! 

Unwilling to be defeated John set his jaw, grinding the pang of that insult between his teeth, “I hope that despite its shortcomings, this house, this town, will in time become a home to you-”

“We will live here, Mr. Thornton, nothing more and nothing less, but I suppose it is enough.” Margaret was not in the habit of cutting off the sentence of another but that one word had instantly riled her to do so. _Home_?? _It could never be that_! For a fleeting moment she hoped she had not sounded too ungrateful but the scowl Mr. Thornton adopted soon dashed it altogether.

“Good day, Miss Hale.” Hat in hand John gave her a last, hard look after that terse reply and left the room, not unclenching his fists until he had thundered down the stairs and right through the crowded street. Not that his thoughts went with him as he stalked back to Marlborough Mills, they remained stubbornly and against his wishes – _against his better judgement_! – in that house as if she possessed them and he did not.

Her sudden coldness at their parting made him feel even more of a fool for having delayed leaving this long even though he could not afford to waste any more time than he already had. He had exhausted every possible fact that had been given to him about the property in Crampton, eventually resorting to listing improvements he could discuss with the landlord to make it more suitable, well _livable_ , for the Hale family.

John had tried in vain to convince himself he had been this thorough only to be helpful and perform his duty to the newcomers, for that duty did not extend to stealing glances at Miss Hale every other sentence as if to ascertain her ethereal presence was real, that she was a woman made from flesh and blood and not a figment of his imagination.

He had followed her figure moving –pacing almost– around the drawing room, restlessly or agitatedly he could not tell which, while Mr. Hale loyally took in his tireless outpouring of information, relevant indiscriminately along with the irrelevant.

It was unlike him to talk this profusely and above all superfluously but the look on her face in which he thought to have detected subtle changes ranging from a grave pensiveness to seeming boredom and the hint of an enigmatic smile had made him hastily resume talking each time either of these expressions threatened to disrupt his train of thought, even making him elaborate needlessly or mention something he had already pointed out numerous times to his own chagrin.

His pride may not approve or like to admit it, but Miss Hale had mystified him just like he had been at her sight the moment he had entered that hotel room. The serenity of her face and simple beauty of her dress had been a sharp contrast against the flowery and overly ornamental wallpaper and he wished the house had been less of an affront to the senses. In fact, he even felt ashamed to have to tell Mr. Hale that it was the best on offer, a position hardly defendable with those cornices a mockery of architecture and the overwhelming presence of hellish blue and pink smothering any hope of elegance and style.

None of it seemed remotely suited to her. Even in his present foul mood he could see that she should live in grander rooms, in a palace amidst fine furniture, gilded ornaments and chandeliers with thousand burning candles. John practically cringed at his steerless imagination. He cared not for any gaudiness and ostentation in every shape or form it took. _How could he even think that would suit her_? No, she would not fit in a palace. It would be like locking a swan in a silver-barred cage.

Again he winced at the poetic turn his thoughts were bent on taking and he grew more and more impatient with this newfound capriciousness he had no use for when an unbidden idea seized hold of him. In his mind he painted the contours of her form and lines of her features he had memorized, transporting the complete picture of her to the very opposite of drawing rooms.

How she would affect his home, the dark and sturdy furnishings lighting up with her touch, gaining color and life. _How she would be a breeze_!

But also a biting wind, he reminded himself sternly. With that haughty tone of hers, she would prove to be a whirlwind.

If Miss Hale were to live at Marlborough Mills she would shatter the glass bell jars –mother’s most prized collection– and yet bring back to life the birds in it, for despite the harshness of her voice, so unlike the mellow tones she had addressed him with in that hotel room, there was softness there too he knew. A softness that had instantly dissolved when he had taken his leave from her as if she was sleeping beauty roused after a hundred years and had preferred not to be woken from her dreams. _Why did that romantic musing not make him mentally scoff, laugh even, and scorn himself for conjuring up those images_?? 

John shook his head, and hopefully his strange mood with that rejecting movement, then realized he had taken a wrong turn –something that rarely happened to him– but decided on the spot to deviate from his usual route. It might be a slight detour but he told himself he could use the fresh air and exercise to drive everything that should not be crowding his mind off of it.   

And he did feel more like himself again once he passed through the familiar gate, walked across the mill yard and made his way through the stately house until he reached the drawing room. He took off his hat and placed it a little hesitantly on the gleaming, oaken surface of the dining table, wary of doing anything else that was out of character for him today but instantly considered himself childish for that doubt which had never plagued him before in his life.

John reached out for the ledger he needed to take with him to his office but he wavered and retreated his hand at the last moment, placing both of them on the back of the chair instead. It wasn’t until the chiming of the clock on the mantelpiece interrupted the channel of his thoughts coursing their persistent way back to Crampton, that he noticed how his nails were digging into the wood. 

A slight ruffle of fabric and a set of brisk measured steps coming closer finally did pull him from his reverie that had been inclined to reside in another, wholly different drawing room.

“Mother. I had not seen you there.” He greeted the formidable woman as she neared him, black dress creaseless and stiff around her form as usual while her hair, only a shade less dark as his own, had been done up in an appropriate and sober style. The frown creasing her wrinkled forehead now indicative of just how much longer she had been aware of his presence even when he had been too preoccupied to notice.

“How unlike you, John, you know my routine as well as I know yours. I am always here at this hour to-”

“-check whether the servants left any dust on the cabinets and side tables.” He finished the sentence for her, she closed her mouth then was on the verge of opening it again when he forestalled her by adding knowingly, “And _under_ them too.”

His mother’s expression morphed from feigned exasperation to undisguised satisfaction. Hopefully he had atoned for his absence of mind for he did not wish to explain it.

“Mr. Latimer was in at the bank today I take it?” Mrs. Thornton inquired in her terse and naturally commanding manner.

“Yes. He was.” John answered her, finally taking up the ledger and starting to leaf through it.

“And you spoke with him?”

“I did.”

There was a silence then his mother’s curt, “Well?”

Realizing he was being very unforthcoming for no apparent reason, John tore his eyes away from the numbers and sums they had been roving over, “All is in order, we merely needed to discuss this month’s figures and anticipate those of the next.”  

“Then why did it take so long to be back? You were not in your office the few times I passed it.” Her tone was not prying or accusatory even, it was simply her habit to want to account for every inconsistency in schedule, ascertain the whereabouts of the tiniest screw or vital cog that kept the mill running like the huge machine that it was.  

“I had other business that kept me away.”

Mrs. Thornton’s silent look demanded more, his current reticence uncharacteristic even for him.

“A friend of Mr. Bell’s, a clergyman from Hampshire if I understood it correctly, has moved with his family to Milton and I assisted them in finding a house. The viewing of a property in Crampton took longer than expected but I felt it would be rather unchivalrous of me to leave Mr. Hale and his daughter there like babes in the wood before the landlord Mr. Donkin arrived.”

She snorted and turned up her nose at the metaphor at the same time, only forgiving him the expression it seemed because he knew she took pride in how she raised him not to shy away from his responsibilities no matter how manifold, taxing or time consuming they might sometimes be.

The patter like sound of his younger sister coming down the stairs and into the drawing room made John close the ledger with a snap and press it against his chest, “I have to work, make up for lost time.”

His mother nodded in understanding with a well-pleased glint in her eyes at his diligence, then he pressed a hurried kiss against her temple before making to go. Fanny barely acknowledged him as he passed her, but he was used to this silly treatment she subjected him to each time he would let a comment slip on her musical talents or weekly demands for a new dress.

Just before exiting the room John couldn’t resist glancing at the large, glass bell jar standing in all its shiny glory on the cabinet; whole and no cracks caused by a whirlwind that had not raged. Despite the absurdity of his mind today he had to smile to himself –no more than a barely perceptible tug at the corners of his mouth– and perhaps even more so at the storm he had imagined capable of breaking the ornaments, as if any woman had that power over them. Over _him_!


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter 3 **

_Masters and Men_

It seemed she had exchanged the fog in London for the smoke in Milton when all she longed for was the clean air of Helstone. Margaret found her fate cruel and did not fathom why it had been so unexpectedly thrust upon her but she kept her doubts to herself and was determined to face what must be faced. Even if this meant that instead of blue skies and sunshine they were lucky to have a fragile ray or two brave the broiling vapors and dare pierce through them to momentarily light up a mere smidgen of one of the cramped rooms. And then the precious brightness it gave, the colors it revived, was inevitably smothered again by the heavy smog outside. 

The fact that dark skies and rain could chase away even the loveliest of spring days in that far away hamlet Margaret wished she had remained was conveniently forgotten; after all, being forever removed from it only made it more of a paradise in comparison with the disagreeable weather in Milton and pushed the sunniest memories to the front of her mind and made her quite forgetful of the gray ones the way a parent would neglect to notice the faults and only ever see the merits of their favorite child.

At first the dreary smoke swallowing up the even drearier view of the street had not affected her so. She had been too busy to mind it much seeing the whole house was a maze of furniture that had fit perfectly in the vicarage but was now constantly rearranged and still ended up huddled together awkwardly, impeding on each other’s territory and making their owners reinvent how to maneuver around them.

Muscles in her arms and her lower back aching Margaret had infinitely preferred unpacking to the endless shoving around of armchairs and tables. Each time she opened one of the countless boxes it felt like opening a present for they were filled with things that tied her to her old life, companions assisting her in grounding in her new one.

And yet, with every day that passed, with more and more boxes emptied, with other rooms beside her mother’s being transformed, and the house nearing that final stage when it could at last be called habitable, she felt increasingly reluctant to find the best spot for the next vase, clock or candelabra. And so she had wandered rather aimlessly through the house with her previous diligence gradually replaced by a wary wish to delay and she found herself a more than willing accomplice in this.

Whether wholly through conscious design or by mere coincidence, every room remained an item or two away from being finished, either a painting still needing to be hung on the wall or an ornament which was still wrapped in paper at the forlorn bottom of a box prevented it. And then there was her own room.

Margaret sat on her knees in the middle of her tiny bedroom, casting around an unhappy look at the chaos that reigned it. She didn’t even mind the clutter, or the fact that she had stapled some of the empty boxes next to her bed so her mother would not have to look at them standing in the hall, reminding her of the reality of their move. It was the estrangement she felt that was starting to affect all of her belongings scattered across the room, have them lose their power of enveloping her with memories of her real home.  

After another, rare column of light –falling on the tired carpet and making dust dance in the pale beam– was severed from its source by the relentless smoke outside it was like losing a friend that had warmed her in her growing loneliness and Margaret rushed out of her room.

She passed her father’s study after peeking around the door frame, seeing him immersed in what had to be the very first book he had taken up to assign a place on the empty bookshelves she didn’t wish to disturb him. Instead she followed the low, continuous murmuring to the drawing room –which she really should start to refer to as the sitting room for it was hardly grand enough for receiving guests– where her mother and Dixon were exchanging sad looks and whispered complaints.   

Margaret felt once again like an intruder when sentences were abandoned and voices trailed off upon her entering. She felt a strange sense of envy at the affection and trust that was so obvious between the two women, especially as she had hoped her own, weakened bond with her mother due to the long separation might gain strength when they would look to each other for support in this new place. But looking at Dixon seated close to her mother’s side, pouring her mistress tea and placing the cup just right after stirring through two sugar lumps made her feel as if sitting down herself and attempt to join them in their daily ritual would not make her a part of it.

Instead she took the cup Dixon offered her in her hands and walked with it to the one, modestly-sized window the room had to offer, back against the two women to dissipate the tense silence that way and hoping they would resume their talk in spite of her presence. She barely tasted the warm liquid on her lips when they eventually did but in such hushed tones to make the exclusion, whether she had brought it upon herself or not, only hurt more.

Had the fanciful thought born from the surrounding smoke that they were living in a poky house of a castle among the clouds entertained her enough to guard herself against the gloominess it had instantly cast on her mother, it was hard to still deflect it now she lacked the confidant that she had in her faithful maid. They might not be sharing their lofty abode with a giant  but seeing the smoke wouldn’t dissolve but seemed a permanent feature in Milton started to make her feel like she was slowly suffocating and more than anything she wanted to climb down that wretched beanstalk!

As if he had heard her prayer a figure suddenly detached himself from the clutches of the gray-white, coiling mass, and stood there for a moment simply looking up, cane in one hand while with the other he tipped his hat at her and even though she could not immediately recall his face the quaint tie and checkered pants soon helped her remember.

Mr. Bell’s natural joviality was the long awaited cure they all needed, it turned out to be quite effective against the shock of the transition and the impracticality of living in a house that was not yet a home and like her parents Margaret latched on to the familiar face he soon represented even to her when he told her of the last time he had seen her as a little girl of eight. Where conversation had been uncharacteristically sparse and a little tentative, the addition of their guest soon lifted most of the weight of it making Margaret silently  conclude it was a true blessing to have a stranger in the house.

On the other side of Milton, where smoke dared not dominate for fear of her stern disapproval alone, Mrs. Thornton had come almost simultaneously to a similar conclusion, only she considered it far from a blessing. Not in the habit of entertaining a lot at home, she barely tolerated outsiders within her fortress, but it truly tested her patience to have the stranger in it be her own son!

He had risen later than was usual this morning, only just having time for a hasty breakfast he would always eat with her, before heading out to the mill. He had then skipped tea altogether but had come in twice this past hour already, the first time to exchange one ledger for another and the second time mistaking it to be eight when it was in fact not even six.

Mrs. Thornton watched her son go after staring what seemed a full minute at the massive clock on the marble mantelpiece as if he could not believe the numbers the arms pointed at to be what they were. She blamed that man from Oxford for putting the useless notion in his head to study the classics in what free time he could call his own, usually no more than a few hours after the last shift ended and the machines were silenced. He had mentioned he would have an early supper tonight so he could walk to that Hale family in Crampton for his first lesson, though why that should fill him with such impatience or cause him to be so distracted was beyond her.   

A deep frown creased her forehead as Mrs. Thornton reverted her attention back to the inventory list of several household items she had been making although in truth the quill in her hand hovered above the paper a moment longer as she listened to the receding footsteps of her son until they finally and completely faded.

Knowing his mother had spied his absentmindedness with her keen insight, John vowed not to return to the house even if it turned out he had forgotten yet another item he needed. He reentered the office with firm, irritated steps, barely acknowledging the handful of clerks that looked up from their books at him in a way identical to when he had left and come back to the place for the second time in a row –in quick succession too– when normally he wouldn’t be pried from behind his desk until the task he had set himself was done.

He retreated instantly to the sectioned off booth he could call his own, practically slammed the hefty ledger on the wooden surface littered with documents and sank in the hard, uncomfortable embrace of his chair. 

It had been two weeks. And still, _still_ she plagued his thoughts. He did not doubt it was the distraction and not the person to have inspired it that occupied his mind. After all, he was not a man to allow himself to be distracted, and it baffled him that he didn’t even understood what it was that made him think of Miss Hale when he least expected it and really had no use for it.

It would happen when he would be tallying numbers or ascertaining the balance between stock and production, and then, unbidden, the image of her would enter his head and drive all else from it. Those moments were short but long enough to have him have to start over again with whatever he had been in the middle of doing and it irked him beyond measure. In fact, it almost made him regret and want to undo his decision to be taught by Mr. Hale but after some consideration he stuck to his resolve to help the man start up his new career as a private tutor and regard it as a rational and justified investment to revisit what he had learned in school and make up for the gap when he had been taken out of it.  And he would not let _her_ change his mind.

With a disproportionate doggedness John leaned forward, planting his elbows demonstratively on the wood and focused on the papers on his desk as if they and they alone made up his entire universe.

Feeling she had lived in an equally small world, Margaret took in a deep breath and stepped out into her freedom with a determination that could rival Mr. Thornton’s zeal to do the opposite in imprisoning himself in his office.

Having been confined to their house for neigh on a fortnight it was a welcome relief to go for a walk and she had been glad both Mr. Bell’s arrival and her father’s very first lecture had provided her with an opportunity to do so. The three of them had set out for the lyceum hall where Mr. Bell introduced his friend to a dozen or so of what would be his pupils for as long as he could bind them to him with all the knowledge he had to offer and share.

The sight of their bustling street in Crampton was therefore sure to dampen her spirits again once they had made their steady and inevitable way back to it. Margaret felt her stomach churn as they passed the butcher wearing a bloodstained apron was busying himself with the fleshy carcasses of pigs while his neighbor held the limp forms of plucked chickens –three in each of his big hands– and the coffin maker across from them was readying his macabre ware for sale. But that sensation was nothing to the stony feeling that filled her entire being the moment they had reached their house, signaling that their little excursion had come to an end already.

“Actually, I am afraid I won’t have time to come in,” Mr. Bell regretfully declined the invitation, both hands leaning on his cane that rested on the pavement, “as a man of habits I always go on a tour of my properties whenever I find myself in Milton and unfortunately I planned one this very afternoon. Though I admit I was hoping your lovely daughter might wish to accompany me, make it a less tedious affair.”

“Well, I am sure she would. Margaret?”

“Oh. Y-yes.” she hurriedly stammered back after her father had pulled her from the clutches of the apprehension she felt at having to climb those steps. She had heard Mr. Bell’s suggestion but guilt at not wanting to enter what was now really their home and would be for the foreseeable future had made her hesitate to voice the answer that had in fact come readily to her lips even though it tumbled clumsily and belatedly passed them now.

Mr. Bell offered her his arm and the friendly wink he sent her way when they turned about to leave Crampton far behind again at once told her he had effortlessly guessed at her reluctance where thankfully her father had not. She doubted he realized she had another motive for delaying to go inside besides not wanting to return to either her mother’s despondent state and her father’s inability to comfort her or the confines of her chaotic room.

Tonight would also be when her father’s first private pupil would come over and he had mentioned Mr. Thornton’s name in eager anticipation so often already during the day she longed to escape hearing it one more time before the man himself would arrive. Moreover, she also couldn’t help but inwardly ridicule how the ambition he had apparently briefly expressed in his letters regarding their lessons would turn out not to be the earnest dedication her father’s hopeful disposition immediately translated it to.

In her mind instead of this so-called ambition he had spoken of a mercenary spirit to obtain not receive enlightenment –in the same businesslike manner with which she imagined he would buy the materials for whatever trade he engaged in– might prove to be a more accurate description. _How else would he read Plato but to appropriate those noble thoughts as something to distinguish himself from his competition; to hold it up like a trophy from the hunt_? But Margaret supposed she would have to take her father’s word for it, after all, although always inclined to see the light instead of the dark in people he was usually right in discerning when someone had that spark indicative of a bright mind or whether the soil was too arid to cultivate or allow anything to grow.

Still, her first meeting with Mr. Thornton had been awkward enough to make her not want to repeat it nor rekindle that silly captivation with the sound of his voice, if only because both had coincided with her first day in Milton and he had perhaps made more of an impression than the town itself. Though what that impression was she could not tell. All she knew was that she much rather have him stay that silent, unreadable man she had spent twenty minutes talking to in their hotel –about what she couldn’t even remember– and not move from that particular memory for instinct alone told her he was the type of man she would neither be friends or enemies with and she could not be bothered to find out where exactly he belonged between those two opposing options.

No. She would leave it to her father to make out the character of his pupil and she would obediently accept it as an accurate portrait, if anything that would absolve her of having to employ herself to perform that dull task.

“Ah! We have come to it at last, my dear. _Marlborough Mills_.”

Mr. Bell’s rather ominous announcement at once reconnected her with her senses which in turn absorbed her present location with twice the speed and intensity. Margaret stood for a moment stunned and simply gazed in horror at the imposing structure that loomed over them. The building sported a myriad of chimneys that sprang from the roof like turrets which ceaselessly puffed wisps of smoke, while the red bricks covering the massive form barely managed to contain the din of unseen machines, giving her the distinct impression she was not looking at a building but a grinding, gnawing monster with an insatiable appetite.

Inside of that gluttonous monster of a building, behind one of its many glassy eyes, John was rather unsuccessfully rubbing his fingers free of ink. It was a common occurrence whenever he would get so absorbed as he had been in jotting down and striking through number after number but he did not mind in the least this afternoon. After all, it meant he had banned _her_ from his mind though it pleased him less this should be the first thought to enter his head now he took a temporary break from his work, nor should he feel this triumphant when the image of Miss Hale ironically returned the moment he claimed victory over her power over him.

He shoved back his chair and got to his feet slightly piqued by his own sharp discernment into his psyche, as if his conscience was suddenly bent on betraying just how little control he exerted over himself when normally he was convinced the opposite to be true. And all this uncomfortable wisdom the result of a woman he did not know but felt impatient to see again, if only to reconcile her mysteriously regal demeanor with which she had received him with the haughty dismissal afterwards for that glaring contradiction had puzzled him exceedingly whenever his thoughts had touched upon those impressions until he chided himself to steer clear away from them and not return in that direction ever again.

Giving up his fruitless efforts to win the battle against the ink stains on his hands –but still determined to win that other in his mind which remained engaged with the mere prospect of perhaps seeing Miss Hale tonight– John walked over to the window and buttoned the end of his loose-fitting sleeves around his wrists.

He had hardly finished with it when he instantly recognized the particular ambling sort of gait that distinguished his landlord’s leisurely, almost dandy style of walking from the active, busy tread of his workers crowding the courtyard. The convivial lifting of that ridiculous cane in greeting as Mr. Bell’s keen eyes found him like a hawk would a rabbit at once made him remember the visit he had written to him about.

John felt his mood take a dive but then the plunging sensation mingled with an inexplicable soaring that almost made him waver on the spot and it seemed he was destined to stumble yet again as he saw the young woman clinging on to Mr. Bell’s arm. 

Glad for the support, Margaret increased her hold on her companion now the sight her eyes still needed more time to truly take in almost had her keel over backwards. Her godfather assured her the mill would not devour them as he again proved how apt he was in guessing at her inner trepidation and led her bravely onwards. He had barely warned her in a confidential undertone how his annual round of inspection consisted of the same tour by the same overseer with what he could swear was the exact same explanation for every room when the man himself, a Mr. Williams, welcomed them with a curt nod and preceded them inside without so much as a backwards glance.  

She tried her very best to reward Mr. Bell’s kind nudge in the right direction to acquaint herself with the town she was now to live in but it was extremely hard to like it when the interior of what gave it its heartbeat was filled with deafening noises and strands of cotton danced in the air like dandelion fluff.

Hardly able to breathe, Margaret pressed a handkerchief against her mouth though it was a futile attempt to filter the air her lungs strainedly sucked in. Soon giving up on pretending to admire the rattling machinery and marvel at the ingenuity of it all her attention was caught by the workers operating the looms who in their seeming numbness barely registered the visitors in their midst.

Slowing her pace as her eyes strayed from one expressionless face to another, she eventually lagged behind Mr. Bell and Mr. Williams, the latter  answering an inquiry made by the former so neither were aware they stepped over the threshold into the adjoining room without her.

Instead of hurrying to catch up Margaret now stood completely still, the detachment she thought she could discern in the continuous performance of one repetitive task after the other freezing her limbs into place. She had never seen more spiritless creatures in her life and for a moment she wondered whether the workers simply forgot they were entities separate from the machines they operated for long hours on end and therefore would not grind to a halt with them at the end of the day. _Or would they_? It was hard enough to imagine  this place could be both silent and motionless, perhaps workers would shut down too when the looms were drained of their power, would stand unmoving on their spots like statues with heads hung until at the first light of day all sprang to life again.

Margaret shook her head to get rid off that eerie vision. She gathered her skirts in one hand while the other still covered her mouth and made to quickly move on when the strangely alien sound of a child sobbing and coughing arrested her in her movements. Instead of continuing on in her flight she strained her ears and set off in the opposite direction, hoping she would find the source of misery before the mechanical wailing drowned it altogether.

Drawn to the same sounds of distress, John stalked out of his office, driven not by sympathy but irritation. He had already been fighting a losing battle against his dwindling concentration since it had been more occupied with calculating how long it would take Williams to complete the tour and thus how much time he had left to make up his mind whether to seek out his landlord and his companion or not, and now he had no choice but to make himself clearer understood to the woman and her sick child when he had hoped he had sufficiently done so earlier today.

It gave him no pleasure to single out one of his employees like this but he remembered but all too well that other sick child and the accident that took place in this very room not even a year ago. John doubted the guilt would ever go away even though he had not directly been responsible. The fact remained that the industry still relied on the small forms and nimble hands of children to collect the cotton strands on the floor before it would clog the looms, damage them irreparably in the process as well as posing a danger to the hands operating them. Sadly, it was far from safe, as he had learned the hard way that day when it had gone so tragically wrong.

He wasn’t heartless but he had to be hard in order to prevent that from happening again. It was why he had managed to tame his torn conscious a long time ago and taken council with his more pragmatic side that urged him to accept the world to be imperfect still and hope it wouldn’t be for the next generation or the one after. But that didn’t mean he would let an ignorant mother increase the risk needlessly now.  

Jaw taut and body tense John bore down on the huddled forms of mother and child, careful not to tower over them though he could hardly help his tall frame, but he did not refrain from having the anger he felt from seeping into his tone. 

The booming voice that suddenly rumbled through the clamor of machines struck Margaret like thunder, stopping her in her tracks when she was but a few paces away from the pathetic pair she had instinctively wanted to reach to comfort and shield from their hostile environment. She blinked in disbelief at the man appearing out of nowhere for he could not be who she already knew he was.

“I told you to leave.”

Mr. Thornton’s rebuke made her involuntarily shudder before Margaret could stop it, the barely repressed vehemence in which it had been uttered alone would have made that impossible.

“But I thought seeing shift’s almost done-”

“It wasn’t nearly done when I asked you to take the child home.” The woman was mercilessly cut short by Mr. Thornton, who lowered his voice to a dangerous growl that instinctively made Margaret recover her courage and step forward at his next vicious words, “Now you’ve not only risked her health but her place too. _And_ your own.”

“But, master..”

“Leave. And if you disobey me in this again you’ll find me less forgiving.”

John instantly regretted his wording when the woman practically cowered at the threat and clutched her child even closer but he would not undo his decision, not when this was the only way to make her realize he couldn’t tolerate defiance in this regard, for both their sakes as well as his own.  

His eyes narrowed as he turned around to follow the two scurry out of the carding room but instantly widened when they landed instead on a figure rapidly closing the gap between herself and him with her gliding way of moving.

The seething expression on Miss Hale’s face had him swallow hard and almost take a step back despite the anger he still felt pumping through his veins which bid him to hold his ground. John inwardly reproached himself for even momentarily being intimidated in his own territory, in the one place authority came as natural to him as breathing, when the horn like whistle signaling the end of the last shift rented the air.

The wrath Margaret had been on the verge of unleashing on that horrid man for mistreating that poor woman and her weakened child nearly fled her when the shrill pitch that came out of nowhere invaded her ears. The clanking and humming of machines slowed down and was replaced by the sound of hundreds of footsteps trudging in the same direction.

A sea of men and women streamed passed her, the strong current in which they moved threatening to take her with them and the only safe haven seemed to be Mr. Thornton as he stood there, fists clenched and the lines in his face hardened; a rock that effortlessly broke the waves of people around them.

She hated the sense of panic that for a single moment must have shown on her own face for she couldn’t otherwise account for the sudden but complete change in his stance. Eyes, no longer glinting like steel, softened and instead seemed to fill with a confused mix of regret, a strangely humble plea to be allowed to assist and the smoldering remnants of his anger.

Wordlessly he was at her side in an instant. Too overwhelmed to stop him Margaret felt her cheeks burn in protest now her voice was stuck in her throat as he gruffly took her arm and guided her through the mass, all the way until the mill spilled them out onto the crowded courtyard. Not until the throng of people had thinned out and he had tracked down the guardian who had lost her did Mr. Thornton let go of her wrist.

The embarrassment of having his protection forced on her caused Margaret to refuse to thank him and instead she rushed passed a surprised and worried Mr. Bell who had obviously been close to charging right back into the emptying mill with the guilt-ridden overseer in tow.

Mr. Williams did indeed feel guilty, not for the wandering young woman he wished his master’s landlord had not brought along in the first place but for having failed the man he respected and looked up to, “Sorry, sir, she was gone before I knew it.”

“Quite all right, Williams. No harm done in the end. And I very much doubt it was your fault for losing her when Miss Hale’s willful enough to have separated herself on her own accord.” John assured the man, causing the man’s apologetic look to morph into one of complete agreement.

“I trust your tour was fruitful in spite of your misguided notion a cotton mill would be a suitable place for a lady?” He then asked scornfully of Mr. Bell who had called after the lady in question to no avail and now turned back to him.

“Well, yes, but I hardly think it fair to-”

John didn’t let him finish and instead hurled a curt reply carelessly in his direction as he already made to head back inside the mill, “I’m glad to hear it. Good day.”

He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the slender figure storming out of the gate, the ribbon of the bonnet in her hands trailing behind her like a kite and the daisy-blue dress swaying around her ankles with every angry step she took away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter 4 **

_Making Friends_

She felt like a spy in her own cramped little hide-out , back flat against the wall and head tilted to rest against it too. She had been poised like a cat for the good part of an hour already, with ears strained, non-existent whiskers out and alerted and if she had had a tail it would be a tense, straight, bushy line to the floor where the tip would be bent upward and swishing from left to right. Outside the light grew dimmer and dimmer, souring her mood which had hardly recovered from that horrid excursion to Marlborough Mills. Margaret bit her lip in annoyance, puffing out a frustrated sigh. If they took any longer she would never make it back home before dark.

Her stomach clenched at the thought she might have to break her promise to Mrs. Gibson to visit her and her sick daughter. Fueled by both compassion for the mother and child and anger for the mill master who had raised his voice at them, she had only just managed to catch up to the two before the crowd of workers would have swallowed them whole. After a light supper –Dixon could hardly be expected to prepare anything more now all household tasks fell to her and her devotion to her mistress to ease her into their new abode took up most of her time– Margaret had practically fled to her own room in order to avoid having to face the source of the poor creatures’ distress.  Despite their less than pleasant run-in, she very much doubted Mr. Thornton was the kind of man to deviate from his plans to start his lessons with her father this evening.

She had stuck to her hiding place and prepared a little basket for the patient she was determined to go and see. Just because she found herself in a strange world and pretty much every street was unknown territory, did not mean she would not try all in her might to resume her duties as the daughter of a clergyman. And so Margaret had put in a herbal mixture and a lavender scented perfume her aunt had insisted she and her mother take with them to face the hostile northern climate but which she had no intention of using herself, on top of which the child’s need for it far outweighed her own. In addition, she had slid in a small tin can with coughing drops she and Fred had always had a keen liking for when they were young and some embroidered handkerchiefs that Edith had sent during her honeymoon in Corfu, all neatly tied up with a ribbon she had pulled from her own bonnet, hoping to make her unimpressive collection of simple presents look a little more colorful and presentable.     

Finding herself too occupied with her task, even if it soon was nothing more than rearranging the items in the basket or retying the ribbon in a different way, she felt perfectly justified in not leaving her room when Mr. Thornton eventually did arrive. The steady hum of his voice drifted upstairs through the crack of her open door but she refused to be captivated by it this time. Instead she amused herself, or tried to at any rate, to picture to herself how a large bumblebee not a man had followed her father into the study, the deep droning sound barely dampened by the door and the floor in between.

And then she had waited, not wanting to stir and give herself away seeing her room was right above the study where the pupil and teacher had still not come out of. More than once Margaret almost succeeded in convincing herself that she could pass by unseen and quite possibly unheard too for the two men were in all likelihood immersed in whatever it was they were discussing at great length, but she rebelled at even the slightest possibility to have to greet and be civil to a man she had no desire to become more closely acquainted with.

At long last there was the sound of floorboards creaking, followed by footsteps in the hall and the front door opening and closing in quick succession. Margaret clutched the note on which she had jotted down the address of the Gibson family’s home even tighter in her closed fist, almost dashed forward to whisk the small basket of her bed, draped a shawl around her shoulders and tiptoed all the way down the stairs. Slipping the note -half crumpled because of her impatience- into the basket, she freed her hand to reach for her bonnet when to her horror she noticed the leather gloves and immaculate and faultless high hat on the side table. Dixon’s set of keys, however, were missing from their hook.

Torn between escaping either by returning upstairs or make for the front door now she realized her mistake, the moment of indecisiveness was enough for her father to become aware of her presence by mere instinct alone it seemed for he called out to her, seconds later opening the door to his study.

“Margaret? Oh, Margaret! It is you. Come in, come in! I was just about to go up and find you. We could use your advice, my dear. You remember Mr. Thornton?”

The moment Mr. Hale had suddenly tilted his head, ears strained it seemed, and turned away from him, John had little to no time to prepare for the door being pulled open to reveal the young woman whose footsteps he had been waiting to detect and given up hope on not too long ago that he would. With his attention having been for the first time in that hour on what his teacher was suggesting for his studies he only just prevented the book he had been returning to its place on the shelf to topple and take a row of others with it in its fall when he looked up in those widened, deep brown eyes.

He now realized he had mistakenly identified the footsteps he had heard as hers when they must have belonged to the housekeeper that had let him in and not Mr. Hale’s daughter for she stood there now, clearly hesitant to step inside at her father’s invitation. Her obvious reluctance to even talk to him was enough to have his barely conquered frustration flare up again, making him clench his jaw but not avert his gaze with a stubbornness he had thought had died with his younger self.

“Yes. I remember Mr. Thornton. How could I not..” She at last answered Mr. Hale, uttering the last part in an undertone. Her eyes left his after something akin to fire flashed in their depth and she crossed the threshold with the air of a princess entering a servant’s room. The disdain she radiated stirred a powerful jolt to shoot up his spine but he refused to acknowledge it might be regret instead of annoyance, his hurt pride for one would not let him.

“Good. Now let me get that book, John, I am sure Margaret can help us decide between Aristotle and Plato.” Blissfully unaware of the change in atmosphere –as tangible to him as storm crackling the air-, Mr. Hale simply sent him a friendly and somewhat apologetic smile before leaving them on their own.

John could not tell why he felt strangely pleased that Miss Hale did not follow her father and rushed out rather than stay with him, but her pointed silence ironically pressed against his ears as if it was the most deafening sound he had ever heard.

Impatient to overcome the tension that apparently was destined to mount regardless of whether they spoke or not, he took a step in her direction, trying not to be discouraged by the way his increased proximity alone made her form stiffen as if in apprehension.

“I’m afraid our meeting earlier has given you the wrong impression of me which I do not wish you to remember me by, Miss Hale.”

“Wrong?” She instantly scoffed, indignant brown eyes rounding on him, “I assure you my impression was not at fault, but rather the person inspiring it.”

Her accusation stung and despite his resolve not to be riled he couldn’t stop himself from biting out with equal venom in defense, “Who you would condemn without hearing his motives whereas your pity, it seems, requires no such thing to be evoked and given unquestionably without ascertaining any of the facts that make up the case.”

“Facts appeal to the mind alone where my pity does not reside.”

“That may be, but I still might wonder why I receive scorn without the opportunity to explain. If only so you would come to the more rational conclusion.”

Her lip curled upwards at the insult he instantly wished he could have softened before flinging it at her.

“Which would do very little to persuade me that my heart is not the better judge.”

“But not the fairer. You are determined to brand me the guilty party.” He countered, voice terse and pride piqued.

“Perhaps because you continue to deny your crime.” Was her cool reply.

It was his turn to huff in resentment, “My crime?”

His offended tone grated on her ears but Margaret refused to acknowledge how much this was due to her own passion-driven ‘appel’ or rather how the steely glint in those harsh blue orbs effectively parried it and left her wary for a riposte she could only hope to counter by a perhaps foolhardy and preemptive lunge, “Yes. You dismissed a worker for trying to take care of her sick child. You punished a mother and her daughter for..”

Margaret berated herself inwardly now a pang of guilt surged through her and her heart skipping a beat betrayed just how much she missed this connection between herself and her mother, but she would not let if affect her attack. She swallowed hard and balled her fists, “You punished them for their unbreakable and most natural bond.”

“I see. You are determined to misconstrue what you witnessed as long as you can turn it against me when I actually did what I did not to harm but to protect that bond from not being severed indefinitely. It is what I should have done last time I was faced with having to make a similar decision. The only blame I bear is for not sending away that poor child more forcefully that day when it could have saved his life- _both_ their lives. When my heart made the wrong decision rather than listen to my head which understood much sooner the increased risk a feverish child would run and how his mother would not be stopped from trying to save him even when... When it was too late and she needlessly threw herself between her son and the machine that broke him like he was nothing more than a rag doll.”

Heavy silence rang once again in his ears and John wished he had not spoken so loudly or with such vehemence. He thought he could see tears brimming in her eyes, it made his heart throb against his ribs in guilt and prompted him to say in a lower voice, “I know well enough the strength of the bond between a parent and child, Miss Hale, it is why I acted the way I did. I can only hope you can find it in yourself to acquit me of the crime you thought me guilty of.”

He searched for any sign of change in the judgement she would undoubtedly still pass on him but when she half opened her mouth, lower lip trembling ever so slightly, floorboards creaked overhead and what seemed the very next moment Mr. Hale could be heard coming down the stairs. He entered completely immersed in the book in his hands which he leafed through without having to look up to know where he was going and addressing the both of them at the same time, resuming their conversation as if it had not been interrupted at all, “Yes, I do think it would be best to start with Plato after all and then work our way to Aristotle, wouldn’t you say so too, Margaret?”

“Oh.. I-I.. I wouldn’t know what advice to give, father. I confess I am not fully aware of what purpose it could serve a mill owner to study the classics but I guess Plato is as good a place to start as any, though I feel ill-qualified to recommend it to one who will undoubtedly prove a very different charioteer than I.”

John felt irked at what he perceived a deliberate attempt to have his ignorance proven and therefor felt justified in adopting a tone that had an equally cold edge to it, “I have read Phaedrus before, Miss Hale, and believe that despite being different charioteers it does not follow this would change the chariot itself, nor our mortal struggle to control both horses.”   

“No, of course, not, I wasn’t suggesting you lack a soul, Mr. Thornton, you are too harsh a critic if you think me capable of that. But you have to forgive me if our conversation just now made me wonder whether your horses might have sprouted bigger wings than mine and taken to the sky.” She retorted cleverly but in such a conversational and deceptively lighthearted a manner that it made her father frown in confusion but not intervene.

Despite his annoyance, John felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth at her deft use of the allegory, making him respond somewhat in jest, “I wouldn’t mind losing the black horse that much, though if your suspicion holds true I suppose the white one is to be regretted.” 

“Yes. Yes, indeed.” Mr. Hale concurred good-humoredly, glad to humbly interject his own wisdom into what he rightly assumed could turn into a strained discussion between his pupil and daughter, “Though I suppose both are of equal importance. In the end there is no light without darkness, and when there is intellect to keep both in check-”

He stopped himself short when he noticed the basket Margaret was still holding close even when she herself had quite forgotten about it. That was not to say she had also forgotten her promise to visit the Gibson family. It was why she rather nervously rearranged once more its contents under two pairs of inquisitive eyes and her father’s genuinely interested inquiry.

“Margaret, were you going out? I am sorry if we kept you, my dear.”

Gladly latching onto the possibility of escape now unknowingly offered to her by her father, she nodded, “Yes, I was. Well, I am. Not too far though. I would like to visit a friend, one of the workers in fact that I met when I visited Mr. Thornton’s mill with Mr. Bell this afternoon. Her daughter is ill and I promised to visit. I only hope the few remedies I can offer will be enough, but she would not accept money for a doctor.”  

Margaret felt her cheeks heat up as she spoke, knowing how her father did not know who she was referring to and what had transpired but that his pupil without a doubt would. She felt a coward because of it but she hardly dared to lift her eyes to meet Mr. Thornton’s stern gaze.

Seeing only the wish to do good and offer assistance much as his daughter would have done back in Helstone, and not even suspecting her less honorable motives to help those who had been mistreated by his own new Milton friend as a form of retaliation almost, Mr. Hale snapped the book in his hands shut with due reverence and solely beamed approval, “That is very kind of you, Margaret. There is nothing that will help us adapt to our new home in a strange place but to find in it a human interest.”

She returned his smile, her eagerness and haste to be on her way returning but she had barely moved towards the door when the note slid out of her basket and flitted to the floor like a young bird on its first flight leaving the safety of the nest only to land right in front of Mr. Thornton’s polished shoes. Margaret held her breath as he bent to pick it up, praying he wouldn’t read the address. The way his eyes narrowed when they flew over the hurriedly scribbled down street name, however, was indication enough that if he hadn’t completely made the connection that the family she was visiting was the Gibsons than now he definitely had.

“If you are thinking of going to this part of town, I strongly advise against it. It is not a place suitable for a young lady such as yourself.”

The terse statement, no matter how genuine in its concern, didn’t come as much of a surprise to her whereas her father looked instantly worried and torn on her behalf, “Well, I can see no harm in wanting to help and I understand your wish to deliver these medicines to the poor child... I really do admire your zeal.. but Margaret dear, if Mr. Thornton thinks the area is not safe.. He has lived here all his life after all..”

“I gave them my word, father, surely you would not want me to break it? No matter how rough some of your parishioners were that never stopped me from visiting them in Helstone.” She tried to persuade him but he looked increasingly troubled at the prospect.

Mr. Thornton was hardly helping her cause when he subsequently remarked dryly, “I fear you will find a bustling and crowded manufacturing town a very different place from a hamlet tucked away neatly in the quiet of the countryside-”

“And I fear you will find that suffering on the other hand is not so very different wherever one goes. Nor is my resolve to ease it when I can.” She brusquely cut him off, emotion getting the better of her despite of her efforts to rein them in.  

“Very well,” Mr. Thornton replied, deceptively calm and composed, though a determined glint lit up his stormy blue eyes, making the sides of her neck prickle, “Then I will walk you there.”

“There’s no need.” She instantly objected but to no avail.

“I beg to differ. If I cannot dissuade you from going there’s every need.”

Mr. Thornton turned to take his leave of her father, effectively robbing her of a chance to protest further, “I will ask my mother and sister to call on you later this week.”

“W-what? Oh, right. Yes, Thank you. We would be delighted. Thank you, John, for your gallant offer as well, especially since I know you’re so busy.” Mr. Hale stammered back, eager to foster a friendship that was all the more precious when virtually all of those had been left far behind.

After a firm handshake as seemed to be his habit and a curt nod, Mr. Thornton proceeded to leave and to her frustration Margaret had no choice but to follow in his wake, the fact that he still held the note with the address in one hand alone made it a necessity.  

Holding the door open for her, they soon stepped out into the busy market of Crampton, forced to stay close to each other or risk getting separated. John wished he had been more civil in his offer but her haughty hostility had prevented him. In an attempt to heal the breach somewhat, a breach he had never envisioned nor sought in the first place, he took a few steadying and deep breaths as he led the young woman next to him through the tradesmen and shoppers milling about and then, once they had reached the main street where people could disperse more, belatedly realized the hindrance her basket must have been to her all the way. 

When he suggested, insisted even, in nothing short of a well-meant and far from patronizing tone to carry it for her the once again clipped dismissal and assurances it wasn’t heavy made him give up perhaps faster than it would have done but a day ago. 

The truth was he was tired of their apparent propensity to argue instead of talk and he wasn’t sure how it had come to this. He supposed if she wished to accuse him of not only being a monster of a man with no heart but also not a gentleman then it wasn’t because he didn’t try. He _was_ trying. But it was impossible to succeed with anything in her presence today, it seemed, and he felt he was doomed to give offence even if he were to comment on the weather or compliment her dress and the way it brought out the warmth in her eyes, not that he was ever in the habit of remarking on either thing and he would not ponder why he had noticed them now.

And yet, despite being irritable and feeling powerless to change the fatal course of their interaction, here he was crossing town on a fool’s errand all because Miss Hale got it in her head his hands were a charitable cause waiting for her benevolence. He couldn’t lie to himself, he did admire her active spirit and undeniable kindness, but he also couldn’t help but feel that part of her motivation also stemmed from helping the very family he still felt she thought he had wronged even if he hoped she now understood his reasons better. He shuddered to think she would judge him for being the ruthless and heartless master he truly was not. _Was he_? _Had he become that which he had vowed not to become_? Why did she make him doubt himself so!

His thoughts threatening to lead the both of them astray, John only just in time recognized where they were and reluctantly halted in front of a dim alley where rags and dyed fabrics hung to dry overhead. “We are here.”

Ill at ease at the prospect of the young woman venturing forward, he chanced a glance sideways. Her face had paled somewhat but she look more determined rather than less so at the sight of the crooked, narrow path.

“Miss hale, I implore you one last time to change your mind and-”

She would not let him finish but instead thanked him for his trouble, slung her shawl once more around her slender shoulders and bravely approached the row of squalid houses halfway down the alley. John wanted to call after her but his voice was stuck in his throat and he was left standing there unable to find the words to stop her, not knowing what he could even say when she seemed set on not listening to him.

With a heavy heart he watched her rap on one of the doors though he did not know whether he found her courage strangely appealing or her stubborn insistence on independence a childish trait he had far less respect for.

That latter sentiment had him whisk around and march off in the direction they had come from but after having taken no more than a few angry steps down the main street did he stop again and then after a moment in which the thought that he had abandoned her when something could happen gripped his heart like a claw and he hastened back. He returned to the alley just in time to see her being admitted into the house that must belong to the Gibson family.

Determined to wait, he hovered impatiently nearby where he could see but not easily be seen. All around him people took no notice of the tall man with set brows and the gaze of a hawk in their midst. Most were drawn to the public house where a dragon cut from wood was hanging from thick chains. But even the boisterous sounds drifting towards him could not distract him from his task, no matter how it travelled through the alley and magnified in the tunnel like structure, bouncing off the bricks as fragmented echoes of slurred songs and tankards clanking.

Whether it was because the door closing behind her had cracks and hung loosely from its rusty hinges, or because the few walls between the hovel like home and the street were in such a state of disrepair, but the raucous sounds of men in all likelihood spilling rather than drinking their pints was hardly drowned out when Margaret sat down at a gnarled old table. The sight of the girl, however, shivering and moaning in her delirious state as her mother held her and rocked her back and forth drove all else from her mind.

It was difficult to be a witness to the sufferings of this little family, to feel keenly their misery and yet the pride and endurance with which they bore it and made them reluctant to accept any form of assistance apart from welcoming her in their home to show that despite everything they refused to succumb. Margaret felt torn between expressing her sympathy no matter how heartfelt it was and respecting the spirit of independence demonstrated by both mother and child. How different a display of emotions, or rather the restraint thereof, than the poor parishioners in Helstone!

And thus, once she had established a connection with the child, extracting her name in a playful fashion and by persuading her to take a coughing drop by pretending to take one herself and act her enjoyment a little excessively and theatrically, Martha eventually treated her to a truly humbling smile of contentment once trust blossomed between them and the sweet flavor of her own favorite candy must have been a true feast on that poor child’s tongue.    

Not long after, the little girl –eleven years of age though her harsh living conditions made her look smaller and more fragile than this– gave in to her bodily fatigue and fell peacefully asleep, upon which her one sibling, a young girl named Charlie –short for Charlotte the affectionate mother informed her proudly– took it upon herself to watch over her older sister like a perfect and adorable little nurse; dabbing one of the handkerchiefs she had given them in tepid water and rubbing it in soothing circles on Martha’s temples.

The endearing and domestic scene brought tears to Mrs. Gibson’s eyes and only when Margaret was certain  she had calmed down enough by her attentive listening to some of the worries that hounded her day and night with a sick child to take care of and a husband in a right state about  what had happened at the mill, did she get to her feet and put on her bonnet.

Not wanting to disturb the child’s peaceful and wholesome slumbering, Margaret insisted she showed herself out and felt a blush creep up on her cheeks when Mrs. Gibson clasped her hand with both of her own to thank her for the kindness shown to them by a lady, and a newcomer too.  At a loss for words, after all her presents were so few and couldn’t be of much real help she feared, she simply responded to the woman’s gratitude with a kind smile and a rather embarrassed dip of her head.

Dusk had long since claimed the surrounding streets for itself when Margaret finally left with promises of returning later that week when she could be missed from home again. The door had barely closed behind her and she had taken but a few steps into the alley when she at first startled a little at the tall figure seemingly waiting for her among the increasing and coiling fog. Next instant she breathed a sigh of relief –to her own surprise too– as she recognized Mr. Thornton. Whether she liked it or not the sight of him was reassuring now she simply felt too exhausted to remember the way back or wish to walk it on her own in a darkened town she still hardly knew.    

A similar yet also wholly different sense of relief flooded John as Miss Hale emerged from the Gibson’s home and made her steady way towards him after only briefly slowing down her purposeful tread once she had spotted him, any repugnant hostility seemingly dissolved. In truth he had been steadily losing the battle waging inside of himself. A part of him had barely been able to remain at his post but had wanted to barge inside instead to make sure Mr. Hale’s daughter had not bitten of more than she could chew, and possibly on his unintentional goading and discouragement too.

Without questioning why he felt both confused and pleased at the same time when Miss Hale wordlessly hooked her hand in the nook of his elbow before he had truly had time to offer it and the mere hint of the gesture had her flit over to his side, John lead her away, a protectiveness coming over him which he had never experienced in his life.

They didn’t make conversation, just crossed the darkened town where lanterns were being lit and people hastened home, two relative strangers of one another that in their own way relied on the other, a shared purpose providing a temporary truce.

Somehow the weight of her on his arm was exhilarating and just knowing that despite her earlier defiance she had this time more readily accepted his protection made it seem as if his heart swelled to twice it seize and throb painfully once they had reached Crampton and he had to miss it all the long way back to Marlborough Mills.


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter 5 **

_Morning Calls_

The moment she turned the corner and spotted the rather massive and dark shape of a large and handsome carriage –wholly out of place in the disorderly Crampton Square– memory came rushing back. Margaret stiffened at once in both apprehension and guilt, causing the man next to her to halt too and arch a brow at her sudden change in behavior.   

Mr. Gibson had accompanied her back into familiar territory after her second visit to his family, in particular the still ailing Martha, and although the man had been rough with his few words aimed at the to him unknown invader into the privacy of his home, in his deeds he had more than made up for it by safely delivering her practically on her own doorstep.

Talking frankly and voicing his own, uncensored opinion on the matter of his wife and daughter being sent away, he had simply trod along side her the entire way even though she could have walked the last part perfectly on her own, his baggy and frayed shirt only half tucked into his patchy trousers, and his shoes looking every inch ready to fall apart. _What a contrast he made to the guardian who had preceded him through the same streets but a few days past_!

Where Tom Gibson, although fiercely guarding his family inside four walls, was more than willing to discuss Milton life from the working class’ perspective with brutal honesty once they had stepped over the threshold, Mr. Thornton’s reserve and pensive nature had forced both of them to dwell in their individual thoughts more than to engage in conversation. Of course, the very different appearances of both men had to be taken into account too: Tom was dressed shabbily, his cap a faded gray covering unkempt, short-cropped hair that his calloused hands kept half lifting to scratch his scalp before sliding it back in place again seemingly without any conscious thought. Mr. Thornton, in his creaseless, black suit, wore that tall hat, the rim of which he crazed with a finger or two whenever they had passed an acquaintance as if the subtle gesture alone instead of lifting it was enough in his case.  

Cutting her mental comparison short, now really was not the time, nor did she see why it would serve any purpose to continue it later, Margaret felt a little rude to rather hurriedly bid Tom goodbye, but the pang of unrest urging her on at the thought of her mother all on her own with their visitors overruled the sentiment. After all, now that Mr. Hale had gone out with Mr. Bell she had only Dixon to help out.

Margaret sped passed the carriage and dashed up the steps, rapping on the door without much compassion for the tired wood. Dixon let her in, wearing a disapproving expression that was nothing compared to her mother’s cold and disappointed demeanor once she entered the drawing room.    

Unable to truly express the extent of her regret in the presence of others, Margaret instead uttered a polite apology without looking at anyone directly as she weaved her way through their Helstone furniture to the sofa on which her mother sat. The moment she had sank down on it she was glad the necessary words had already left her mouth for the pair of stern, steely blue eyes directed at her now would have made her falter for sure.

The resemblance Mrs. Thornton bore to her son, or rather the reverse must be true, was striking to say the least. Margaret could only just repress a silly snort erupting from her so it tickled her throat instead as she refused to blink at the formidable woman’s undisguised and disproportionally aloof scrutiny. With her set brows -two perfectly identical, straight lines-, high cheekbones and raven hair tamed by a single, sober ornament, it was easy to see from whom Mr. Thornton had inherited his most intimidating features. Though they appeared chiseled in his case, the lines wrinkling her forehead and the crow’s feet in the corner of her eyes made her face appear sculpted from firm clay rather than smooth marble.

The young woman seated in the armchair next to hers, presumably her daughter, Miss Thornton, possessed at first glance little to no similarities with her mother and older brother, in fact, her heart-shaped face -framed by bouncy, blonde curls- appeared pale and fragile in comparison, not unlike the porcelain teacup in her gloved hands. Her dress too could not have been more different: its many layers like a waterfall of bright, exuberant colors with frilly, white lace adorning cuffs and hems like froth on that lavish, fabric spectacle while the woman that brought her into this world wore an immaculate dress of black silk adorned only with exquisite but far from showy embroidery.

Amused by the observations that immediately arose in her mind, even though knowing she probably shouldn’t, Margaret hardly kept track of the mostly stagnant and awkwardly moving forward current of conversation after introductions had been properly made and she only became aware of it again when Mrs. Thornton proudly listed her son’s achievements, causing her mother to fall silent, expression instantly saddened now she couldn’t openly praise or even acknowledge her own son’s existence.

“..and considered a true prize by all the husband-seeking women in Milton.”

Margaret gladly latched on to the opening Mrs. Thornton’s boastful statement provided, “Surely there must be some women who would forego the reward of becoming the second Mrs. Thornton?”

The relief she felt at her mother’s careful smile was short-lived, however, now Mrs. Thornton practically snarled in disdain at her flippant remark.

“He is both respected and sought after by those who see, as I am not ashamed of admitting I do, what a truly great man he is.”

“I don’t doubt that, though, of course, his natural inclination towards reticence is hardly helpful in discerning his…his _prize-worthy_ qualities.”

“Would you rather have him boast of his achievements?” Mrs. Thornton scoffed indignantly in return.

“Not at all. It would also hardly be necessary when there are others who readily provide the world with unbiased praise in his stead.” Margaret defended herself, not able to blunt the edge to her voice.

Mrs. Thornton straightened in her chintz chair, shoulders squared, chin lifted and broad jaw taut, “I am well aware you think me exaggerating since I am his mother, but who better to vouch for all he has done? I know what kind of man my son is. John has made a successful career for himself, has made the Mill to what it is today. Actions speak louder than words, Miss Hale. And the proof of that is in plain sight to see for those who aren’t willfully blinding themselves to their unspoken testimony of his character.”

Margaret felt as if she had collided with an unforgiving wall now the accusation, intentional or accidental, hit closer to home than Mrs. Thornton could be aware of. _But why should she feel even the slightest guilt because of that charge_? _Had her son relayed their altercation in the Mill that day of her visit with Mr. Bell_? _Had her eyes not be opened by witnessing that scene instead of remained closed_?

Stirring herself out of her confusing and self-conscious thoughts, the hint of triumph playing across Mrs. Thornton’s stern face made Margaret bite out before she could stop herself, “True, in a man, or woman’s actions lies their worth. But it does not follow recognition of a person’s merits or flaws is the natural consequence of a display of those actions, those choices. The same action can be viewed, _interpreted_ , differently. Someone might think he is doing the right thing, _look_ like he’s doing the right thing to the majority of his often like-minded audience, while it might be inherently wrong. Just as someone may do the right thing but be condemned for doing the opposite if that is in the interest of the eyes that judge him. Punishment and praise are dealt so.. So _arbitrarily_..”

Mrs. Thornton’s brows rose instantly, forming questioning arches at her enigmatic argument. Margaret did not avert her eyes from their guest’s piercing look, she would not shy away from criticizing her son’s treatment of the Gibson family, presumably by extension his treatment of all his workers. She felt her heart beat a little quicker when she recalled too how Mr. Thornton had attempted to explain his reasons for acting the way he did; reasons she had to grudgingly acknowledge held at least some truth, though that concession did not lessen her rejection of the manner in which he had executed his decision. After all, sound as his argument may appear even to her inexpert mind, he had sent a sick mother and her child home in no uncertain terms that her very illness jeopardized her place. If it really had been compassion and sympathy that drove Mr. Thornton in that case, then it had been wrongly performed as a cold-hearted dismissal. Even if she no longer condemned his motive, she still couldn’t approve of his method.

“I am not sure I understand, Miss Hale, unless you would care to lay bare the cases you are referring to.” Mrs. Thornton demanded coolly.

Next to her on the sofa, Mrs. Hale stirred uneasily, eyes flitting to her enfolded hands in her lap, knuckles going white as she fought against any betrayal of emotion. Margaret, eager to stand her ground but a split second ago, now cursed herself for the fool that she was. She could not possibly grant the request for it would require not only her openly blemishing Mr. Thornton’s reputation in front of his staunchest ally but also force her to give an explanation about Frederick and the mutiny.

By allowing herself to be swept up in her childish desire not to be bested in a debate driven by a mother’s fierce pride for a man she instinctively disliked, she had only made it worse for her own mother now caught in grief for a son still alive but in all likelihood out of reach forever. 

“Well?” Mrs. Thornton pressed her impatiently.

 “Oh, they.. They were hypothetical cases only, therefore let us not pursue them, it would not lead us anywhere I am sure.” Margaret hastened her retreat, rather unconvincingly she feared for she could see Mrs. Thornton’s eyes contract in suspicion and undisguised doubt but before she could protest against the abrupt end to their discussion she motioned for Dixon to serve their guests her famous coconut-cakes while she herself attempted to draw Miss Thornton into the conversation, not caring her urgency to steer away from their current topic was obvious.   

“There are concerts here, I believe?” She asked in as neutral and light-hearted a tone as she could muster, making the young woman sitting across from her pause her excited fiddling with her dainty gloves. She sat perched on the edge of her seat once she had noticed her mother’s piqued interest. Unfortunately her awakened curiosity would remain unsatisfied now Mrs. Thornton directed her with a curt nod to answer Margaret’s question despite the fact that her own had not truly been answered but a moment before. Luckily for Margaret the woman had an aversion to stoop to prying no matter how justified her demand had been, and therefore conceded to move on, her mouth a thin line, not a smile in honor of her half-victory.

Margaret swallowed down her pride and fully committed herself to making conversation with Miss Thornton –or Fanny, as she insisted on being called now it was discovered music was a favorite topic of both–, it was a small sacrifice to make in an effort to spare her mother any more discomfort; to somehow make up for her own tardiness that had already irked her as well as her thoughtless remarks dragging Frederick into the fray.

While the older women both ate their sweet treats in a tense silence –one nibbling like a frightened and unhappy mouse, the other grinding the crumbling cake between her teeth a little vindictively– Margaret realized too late music might not be as safe a topic as she had hope it would be. Fanny soon inquired after the piano that was but all too obviously absent, arranging without much thought how Margaret could use her own whenever she pleased to dust off her rusty skills for, surely, a day without music was a day lost.

An instant later Mrs. Thornton, far from happy with her daughter’s capricious invitation, rose abruptly to her feet, cleared her throat in a disapproving and strained sort of way, then inclined her head at a minimal angle in farewell before sweeping from the room, leaving Fanny to hurry after her, extracting a promise from Margaret she would visit as soon as her cousin Edith had sent her details of that delightful and new Italian song she had mentioned, and repeating again with an almost forceful and meddling kindness that she should consider her instrument –superior to any she could have played before in her life– as if it was her own.   

The fact that they had to sell their own piano when they moved seeing transporting it would have been too costly –not that it would have fitted in their current home– was painful enough a reminder in its own right, but for Margaret it had another, added hurt. A hurt she knew must be foremost in her mother’s mind as well.  

The Hale children playing duets, four instead of two hands dancing across the keys in harmonious disorder, had been a family ritual that had filled the parsonage with happy tunes and boisterous singing. Setting herself the task to improve her humble talents on the instrument to present to Fred once he got back from his adventures on sea, his banishment from the country he was born and raised in, the impossibility from ever returning to the family that missed him dearly and from which he had been ripped away by cruel fate, had instantly and completely taken her zeal from her. Not even her parents’ encouragement nor Aunt Shaw’s and hers and Edith’s music instructors had persuaded her to play again ever since that moment she witnessed her mother tearing apart that newspaper and her father’s defeated look quenching all hope from his eyes as he remained behind with the shredded paper.

The moment their guests’ footsteps could no longer be heard on the stairs Margaret hardly felt up to the task of facing her mother. The grave look on her tired face, once she was brave enough to lift her eyes up to it,  told her she was internally lost in reviving days long past, perusing memories that, no matter how precious, offered but an insufficient alternative to having her brother here, relieving her too of the impossible duty to be both her parents’ children at the same time.

Her hesitantly outstretched hand reaching for Mrs. Hale’s never managed to caress it in support for it was pointedly withdrawn at its approach. Feeling forlorn by the outward and painfully silent rejection Margaret quickly got to her feet and moved over to the window to hide the tears welling up and pricking in the corner of her eyes.

_Oh how she longed to be her mother’s beloved son instead of her estranged daughter_!

With balled fists Margaret watched the other mother and daughter get into the stately looking carriage, following it as it jarred into motion and started to leave Crampton square and its unhappy inhabitants far behind.

In Mrs. Thornton’s opinion, however, it was not nearly far enough. Although she was glad to get out of the carriage, once again regretting the hire of horses for the occasion as she descended the steps, their visit to those Hales had left her with a less than favorable opinion of her daughter’s most recent friend. Now, regardless of it being in the middle of a busy day, she yearned to be in her son’s presence almost as much as Mrs. Hale desired to be reunited with hers.

Fanny’s inclination to form quick and superficial attachments to any woman near her age, or near enough for there were more years between her and Miss Hale than between that woman and John, had proven itself a familiar source of vexation.  Much to her chagrin –as if her mood had not been ruined enough by that girl’s saucy wit!– her very own daughter had insisted Miss Hale should come over to the house – _her_ domain– for piano practice whenever she felt like it.

Not in the habit of handing out carte blanches to virtual strangers, especially sharp-tongued young ladies who fancied themselves entitled to expressing strong opinions no matter how inappropriate or misplaced, Mrs. Thornton snarled at the very idea of that woman walking through the same doors she now passed.

She gladly left Fanny on her own as she evoked many a strangled note from the piano in the drawing room and retreated to the dining room where she preferred to sit on most occasions; for one it gave her a clear view of the Mill yard and thus also of her son whenever he would stride across it, weaving his way through the hands milling about like ants.

Sitting down facing the windows, Mrs. Thornton started her habitual straightening of the leather-bound and immaculate books arranged in a circle at the heart of the table, willing herself to focus on that task instead of dwelling on that girl for her willful ignorance when it came to her son.

Unaware of the slight he had received in his mother’s perception at least, John was surprised to see her in the dining room when he walked in on his way to his own room. He had somehow sent an inkwell spinning and consequently spilling all over his sleeve and needed to change. Not for his own sake, the stains were nothing to him if a little sticky and wet, but he expected a man from parliament later to conduct a survey on the working conditions in his mill and it would not do to have his inky appearance give him the wrong impression of how he ran his business.   

“Mother. You’re back early.”

“You didn’t stipulate a length for our visit if I recall correctly.”

“No. I did not. But I take it you did go-”

“We did what you requested of us, John.” Mrs. Thornton replied rather curtly, the tone of her voice alone told him that she had recognized but purposefully ignored the same question embedded in his previous sentence and that she had, predictably, found little enjoyment in the visit.

“Thank you, mother. Had I known you were so unwilling to go I wouldn’t have pressed you as I did. But as it is, I felt it only right to show Mr. Hale’s family this courtesy, they are new to Milton after all, and I am sure his wife and daughter appreciated the gesture.”

His mother snorted at this which effectively stopped him from continuing on to his room, he half turned towards her again and retraced some of his steps back to her.

“Mother?”

“The mother might have been, well, she was civil and hospitable at least. But as for the daughter..” Another snort, Mrs. Thornton crossed her arms and shook her head this time too. “So outspoken and yet she would not give me the particulars when I am sure she was criticizing you, whether directly or indirectly I suppose I shall never know with a headstrong girl like her.”

“Criticized? In what way? I mean, I am hardly surprised that she should reveal herself as my severest critic, I already knew that much, but I fail to account for what I could have possibly done during the past week that has given her cause to reproach me, _again_.”

John regretted adding that last word as it instantly had his mother narrow her eyes the way he imagined a hunter would when he spotted a deer.

“It was nothing. It _is_ nothing.” He hastened to right his own mistake in even mentioning it, “Miss Hale came here with Mr. Bell on his annual tour of the property, well _his_ property, on paper at least –Mrs. Thornton let out an indignant ‘ _hmpf_!’ at this–, and I’m afraid she doesn’t agree with the manner in which I address the hands.”

“What right has she to disagree with something she has no knowledge of? She’s not from these parts, I daresay in the South it is customary to voice unfounded opinions and meddle with other people’s business.”

“She didn’t meddle, just.. Just commented.”

Mrs. Thornton pinned him down with a hard stare at his attempt to lessen the severity of Miss Hale’s conduct, but something stirred in protest within him to have her spoken of thus by his own mother. It stung his pride that she should think him truly affected by her words of criticism when, really, he wasn’t. _Not anymore_.. He had explained himself, not that he needed to, and it was up to her to either see his side of the story or persist in resenting him. Either way he cared little for the outcome. _Why should he_?

“Well, it wasn’t her place to _comment_ ,” Mrs. Thornton eventually huffed, “and I see now she must have referred to her visit to the Mill. I would like to see where she could find a better or more honorable and respected master in the whole of Darkshire! Disagree with how you addressed the hands, indeed..! She has already misunderstood Milton and the people living in it, preferring talk to deeds to make out someone’s character. I suppose I must expect nothing less from someone who lived in London. I daresay her own behavior would ill bear the same scrutiny she has applied to yours.”

“What are you talking about, mother?” John prompted rather irritably, he could tell his mother was glad that he was no longer on a path to defend her Jezebel seeing she rose from her seat to draw herself up to her full height though this still meant she was several inches shorter than him.

“She was late, rushed in mumbling excuses, hiding her real reason for her absence. The words she chose for her eloquent apology may have sounded very fair and just, but she didn’t know I saw her arrive. I happened to glance outside as I made to sit down. She came around the corner with that Gibson man. God knows what she was doing in his company-”

“Gibson?” John repeated thoughtfully, followed by a deep, reverberating _hmm_.

His mother, discerning as ever despite the fact that she didn’t like to be interrupted now she had been gathering steam, observed cleverly, “You don’t seem surprised.”

Her tone demanded more of an explanation now it was evident he knew something she didn’t. “I confess I’m not.” John exhaled, feeling an uneasiness creep up on him which he couldn’t explain to himself now it seemed Miss Hale had not given up on her charity. He supposed it was something that this Gibson fellow at least made sure she got home safely but a foolish part of him had entertained an even more foolish hope she would look to him for that. After all, she had once already, even if it had been on his insistence and more as a favor to Mr. Hale than as a service to his daughter.

He quickly shoved away the memory of Miss Hale’s undeniably pleasant weight on his arm under his mother’s inquiring gaze, there was no point in lingering on it or to wish for a repetition. How Miss Hale would ridicule him if she could have heard that desire!

_How he should ridicule himself_! 

“I believe Miss Hale has decided that visiting the Gibson family, their sick child in particular, will somehow amend for my unforgivable act of cruelty against them. It was Mrs. Gibson and her daughter that Miss Hale saw me dismiss. I could not risk another fatal accident.”

“No. Of course not. You made the right choice.” Mrs. Thornton was quick to concur, a strange light gathering in her eyes as if understanding about something that had gnawed at her finally dawned on her, “And now I know what she was referring to when she said doing a bad thing can still be viewed as good seeing judgement is in the eye of the beholder, even if this other person she mentioned remains a mystery.”

“What other person?” John asked, interest instinctively piqued.

His mother flitted her eyes up at the ceiling in disdain as she replied, “This _hero_ who I suppose served as contrast for he did the good thing though it was perceived by most to be bad.”

John felt his stomach revolting as if he had suddenly lost all appetite. He didn’t like being contrasted with this other mysterious person, this saint who had supposedly done the opposite of what he had done.

_How long was Miss Hale going to hold that one deed, which she had misconstrued to boot, against him_? _When would she stop condemning him for it_?

... _And what was it to him if she didn’t_?  

He cleared his throat to get rid of the strange thickness of it and made to continue on his way, “Seeing we can’t possibly know him there is no point in pondering further on Miss Hale’s heroic acquaintance. Now I really must go.”

“John.”

He halted but did not turn around to face his mother.

“How did you know Miss Hale planned to visit the Gibsons?”

He could just hold back a grumpy sigh before he said somewhat strainedly, “Last week after my first lesson with Mr. Hale I accompanied her to their home-”

“John!”

“-would you rather I had let her go off alone to that part of town?” He still wouldn’t turn around, knowing she might see the frustration in his eyes and misinterpret it.

There was a silence, then she muttered darkly, “I had rather Mr. Hale did not have such a headstrong daughter.”

John grinded his teeth instead of answering and marched off to his room to finally get that clean shirt, pressing his lips together as he went for at this moment he couldn’t agree more.

_And yet_..

A part of him couldn’t help but admire Miss Hale’s independence and active spirit. It was not so very different from Milton people and he suspected his mother realized this too but it seemed only to serve to make her more determined to not like her for it. In his own case, he hardly dared inspect too closely for he truly did not know what sentiment it inspired there except that it tumbled around in his chest like a restless bee of which he had no idea how it had gotten inside.

_Nor how to let it outside again_ …

And he would be lying if he thought he had forgotten about that meddlesome, restless insect caged in by his ribs three days later when he could finally see off the surveyor who had done his task thoroughly if not extensively. It seemed to buzz wildly and suddenly when someone he had not expected to see accidentally grazed shoulders with Mr. Dawes as he left the Mill yard and she entered it.

“Miss Hale.” He felt compelled to call out to her now she made to resume her purposeful if a little wary way after receiving a heartfelt apology from the man bumping into her.

It was clear from the way her eyes momentarily widened that she had not yet seen him. She visibly hesitated to proceed, tilting her head slightly as if to gauge whether he was obstructing the way forward or simply near enough to greet her.

“Do not worry, I won’t keep you. I am too busy myself to have much time to spare for that.” John let her know, his gruffness sparked by her overt reluctance to even risk engaging in a conversation with him. “My mother and sister are in the house, I presume you’ve come to see them?”

“Y-yes. Well, no. That is..” She stated rather incoherently, blinking rapidly as she seemingly overcame whatever had her rooted to the spot and took a step closer to him.

“I have come to show Fanny a song she inquired about. I promised I would once my cousin sent me details of it.” Margaret conveniently left out the fact that she had received Edith’s letter several days ago but had postponed her visit to this morning, looking up at the looming cotton Mill in whose shadow they were standing reaffirmed her aversion of the place and her consequent reluctance to visit.

Mr. Thornton nodded curtly in apparent indifference and made to walk passed her, prompting her to add a little hurriedly now she suspected apprehension must have been plain on her face and he must link it to himself instead of the building in which he worked, “I don’t think I thanked you, Mr. Thornton. Or rather not as I perhaps should have done.”

He stopped in his tracks, turning back to her with a questioning frown.

“Thanked me for what?”

“For accompanying me to that neighborhood and back to Crampton. I am not sure I would have found my way without you.”

John felt the hairs in the back of his neck prickle with that admission. He briefly cast his eyes down, away from those brown orbs, before grumbling his reply, “There’s no need to thank me for that, Miss Hale. Besides, from what I hear you have already found a new guide in Mr. Gibson himself.”

“Yes, he was kind enough to once again show me the way home. Still, I should have thanked you properly at the time.”

He was glad as well as taken aback that he could not detect any resentment in her answer even when he had spoken with a bitter tinge. The way her eyes wandered from him to take in the Mill yard and how they seemed to grow dimmer as they strayed in particular from one child to the next who zigzagged through the crowd, however, made him wary to lower his defenses just yet.  

“How many children do you employ?”

Her frank question and the strangely business-like voice in which she asked it at first made a smile tug at the corners of his mouth now she unknowingly reminded him of Mr. Dawes and his endless list of inquiries, but then he grew uncertain of what to tell her.

“I hesitate to answer you, for would you then not accuse me of thinking about my hands in terms of numbers instead of people? Besides, I think that even despite our differences we will both agree that one child working would be one too many in an ideal world.”

The guarded, tentative openness in which he had said it inadvertently gave Margaret pause and the next question that arose quickly dissipated when she discerned the same sadness she felt; it shimmered in the depths of those deep blue puddles she had never seen this close to giving away its inner secrets. “You don’t believe this world to be ideal?”

He was silent for a moment, eyes remaining locked with hers and the noise around them from machinery and worker alike seemed to recede.

“No. I do not. But it might be. One day..”   

The vulnerability betrayed by those words, by his somber expression was so uncharacteristic for Mr. Thornton –as far as she was any judge– that Margaret could not immediately respond. In addition she felt strangely overcome by an inexplicable urge to anchor herself in the nook of his elbow again like that day he’d walked her back from the Gibson home; despite the gravity of his tone his stance still exuded a confidence and authority that was hard to miss. Or _resist_.

_How could one man be two different men combined_?

_How could one repel her and the other now suddenly seem to pull her closer.._?

To make it easier on herself to quench the impulse still plaguing her, which must be grounded in her spying something that wasn’t there to begin with, Margaret finally averted her eyes and turned away from him on pretense of observing some men with tattered clothing heaving cotton bales on a cart.

At that moment a shrill, high-pitched and somewhat over-excited voice pierced her ears, causing all other deafening sounds to return in full force too.

“Oh! Margaret? Margaret! Over here!”

Fanny stood on tiptoes as she leaned against the railing in front of a large, opened door of dark wood. She waved as if hailing a long lost friend sailing in from a tiring journey across distant seas and vast oceans.

As if that image alone wasn’t enough to forcefully remind Margaret of Frederick and the day she waved him off, the reason for her visit also pushed itself back to the forefront of her mind. Dread rising at the thought of facing the piano Fanny insisted she would consider her own, Margaret rather strainedly dipped her head in Mr. Thornton’s direction and walked on, wondering what it would feel like when her fingers would once again after such a long slumber touch ivory keys.

John turned his back against the house again once it had swallowed up Miss Hale and his sister. He tried to shake the tingling sensation tangled firmly around his spine it seemed, for all the way to his desk the image of her bright, brown eyes fully turned towards his was enough to send something akin to a shiver up and down it.

He felt strangely cut off, frustrated even, now he had wanted to say so much more on the topic, especially when Miss Hale had seemed open to it and less prone to attack and misconstrue his every word, but before he had even had a chance to continue Fanny had stolen the opportunity away. Realizing the importance of education, child labor was a topic he found difficult himself but he had made peace with it, now she had raked that all up again..

Being a wise enough man not to question his motives or the cause of his wandering thoughts just yet, John soon abandoned the hefty report left by Parliament’s zealous servant –Mr. Dawes had diligently inspected every inch, nook and cranny of the Mill– and found himself ascending the steps that lead him to the front door of the house. Although he was fairly sure he had set out with a solid reason for coming in this direction it cleverly eluded him now, leaving him hovering on the threshold without any apparent purpose.

 Of a mind to retrace his steps and return to the office where more work than he dared contemplate still awaited him, the first sounds of a piano drifted outside, effectively rooting him to the spot.

He took a step closer to the door that was slightly ajar, tentatively reaching out with his hand and then finally pushing it back to let him in. The house was silent save for a pair of voices coming from further down the hall which he recognized as Fanny and Jane’s; the former was coaxing the latter to remember where she herself had left her file with music sheets and then forgotten all about it, her tone one a petulant child would adopt when through his own fault he had lost his favorite toy.

John wavered for a moment, not sure why he was even here and knowing he could, _should_ , go back, but then the tune which had sounded hesitant –haltingly even– grew more steady. As whoever was playing picked up the pace so did he resume his way, spurred on by swelling notes and reverberating tremors he ascended the stairs and allowed himself to be lead to the drawing room. He entered it ensnared by the melody growing increasingly rapid and powerful, making him feel like he had been floating on a small babbling brook one moment and now it had gradually but irreversibly turned into a river threatening to end in an all consuming waterfall the force of which seemed unstoppable.

All John felt capable of doing was standing there arrested on the threshold once again at the mesmerizing sight of Miss Hale, this time hunched over the piano, fingers blindly flying over the keys.

_Was this to be his fate!_? _To be powerless in her captivating presence only to be inevitably awoken when –not if– she would aim her arrows at him again_?

Determined to coax himself out of his trance John tried to move, turn away, _leave_ , anything but stand here listening intently and with every fiber of his being. It would not do. His limbs were locked in place. He felt paralyzed. He had predicted a storm if Miss Hale were ever to enter this house, but it was much more than that. Its pillars shook and were in danger of crumbling. It was like a flood. Waves crashed into him, heartbeat spiking every time she hit the keys hard but he stood his ground, not in fear of drowning only that he would need to gasp for air soon.

He never had the time to go to concerts and he had made it a point to avoid the house when Fanny was practicing but how pointless to go to them now for after hearing this they would surely always be lacking. It was as if he had never truly heard or understood music before. _And that thought didn’t make sense_..!

After all, Miss Hale’s technique sounded sloppy even to his inexpert ears, permitting herself a lot of freedom with the scores which to him were nothing more but squiggly dots in a roster of lines and yet she made them come alive: she cast a spell that made the song burst forth from the instrument.

_If there was magic in this world, then this was it_.

Normally ladies would play very differently, choosing a different song so their fingers, features and pose would be all elegance. Miss Hale, in contrast, straightened and bent her back in accordance with the tune and her fingers curled up then stretched long like spiders legs, nimbly roving over the keys. John could see but the profile of her face, but he saw how her expression changed, reflecting the emotion she tapped into with every twist or turn, every slowing down or speeding up the music provided her with. And he still found himself swept up by the same current she rode.

_Did the song remind her of something_? _Of_ someone..? _Someone she missed_? _Or longed to meet again_?  

John felt bile pool in his mouth as he remembered his mother’s words.

_Perhaps that hero of hers_? _Was he destined to be cast as that man’s nemesis_? _As_ her _enemy_? _Was it futile to think he could compete with that idol, whoever he was_..?

“Mother? Whatever are you lurking back here in the shadows for? You too, John, I am sure Miss Hale is not that shy a performer.” Fanny exclaimed, bustling in with a stack of music scores clutched to her chest. As if to prove her statement wrong Miss Hale startled, missed the key and hit the wrong one as she half swiveled around and rose, stool scraping the wooden floor underneath. It was clear she had been completely oblivious to anything going on around her. Especially to the presence of others in the same room.

Mrs. Thornton scowled and didn’t look like she approved either of those words applied to her by her daughter. She drew herself up but not waiting for what she was going to say John stepped aside to let her through without meeting her eyes, or anyone else’s for that matter, and hastened in the opposite direction.

He might have speedily fled the house but it took him longer than necessary to cross the Mill yard. His pace slowed and although he abhorred how he practically tarried as he gestured Williams to open the gate to let through a new batch of finished goods, he refrained a moment longer from heading back to his office and instead lingered in overseeing the process that didn’t really need his supervision.

Finally he could distinguish her footsteps among the dozen others and Miss Hale appeared among the hands too busy with their work to notice. Urged forward by a desire to have this restlessness both taken away and prolonged at the same time now that she had instilled it in him with her performance, John made sure their paths would cross.      

For the second time that day, within the same hour even, Margaret found the way forward blocked by Mr. Thornton. Or rather, it was still possible for her to give him a wide berth but that would mean deviating from the most direct route away from this place. Away from the whirlpool of emotions rekindled now she hadn’t been able to resist playing on that magnificent instrument. It had been cathartic, almost. Well, no. More than that. It had been like drawing poison from a wound; liberating, healing, _saturating a terrible thirst in one greedy gulp_!

After all these years, to feel like she could, and _would_ , play again, was such an exhilarating sensation that it drove away the embarrassment she should perhaps experience at loosening the reins, losing herself in her play.

What was it to her that Mr. Thornton, of all people, had seen her, _heard_ her? That his mother’s sneering remark had been barely suppressed by cold civility?

“I have rarely heard someone play like that. Well, actually, I have never.. Never had that.. That pleasure.” John started, feeling annoyed he couldn’t express himself coherently, haunted as he was by not knowing but wanting to know what had made her play this way: what – _who_ – evoked such passion within her.

Miss Hale’s dazed and far away look as she stared passed him at the opened gate made him suspect she had heard much if anything at all of what he was saying. _Trying_ to say.

He opened his mouth again but before a sound came out his eyes flitted up, drawn to the silhouette of his mother behind the drawing room’s window.

John swallowed the rest of that sentence already faltering and which now slipped out of his grasp entirely, finishing it instead with a curt and abrupt; “I’m afraid I must leave you now. Good day, Miss Hale.”

It took Margaret a moment to register Mr. Thornton’s leaving her side brusquely, she had simply been too engrossed in that wonderful, nostalgic feeling of fingertips tingling and heart thumping to catch all of his words, let alone their meaning. And now he was walking away from her without giving her the chance to utter a single word of goodbye herself.

Margaret frowned as she watched him go, brows furrowing even more once her eyes found the probable source for his departure. She gathered her skirts in one hand, making to go and letting out a huff in both annoyance and amusement at the black crow staring down at her, guarding the smoke-puffing, clanking, and relentlessly grinding nest.   


	6. Chapter 6

** Chapter 6 **

_Dressing for Tea_

His teacup stood half abandoned and half forgotten on the small table to his left; silver tray shimmering in the soft glow of the fire and the milky-white porcelain reflecting the flames like a mirror, making it seem as if the flowers crawling over its glossy surface were ablaze.

John clenched his jaw and leaned back a little, making the leather of his armchair creak in that distinct way only taut but tired leather did, loosening the formal maroon colored cravat he had put on despite his mother’s indignant huff when he had returned early from the mill to dress for his visit to the Hales. The storm that he had seen brewing overhead as he had made his way to Crampton had unleashed itself and rain was now pelting against the windows, the darkened world beyond lighting up eerily with every flash of lightning as the panes shuddered every so slightly at the occasional, low rumbling of thunder.

Head slightly tilted as if he was pondering an insolvable puzzle and one elbow planted on the armrest, his index and middle finger rubbed against his temple while he observed the only other two people in the room with a growing sense of unrest that had no reason to wreathe around in his chest.

His landlord practically perched on the edge of the sofa, forehead resting against his hand and fingers tapping on his knee. Next to him Miss Hale sat half turned towards Mr. Bell, an old tattered book open in her lap though her hands cleverly and deliberately covered one page against any covert glances. Her eyes were alight with excitement as she awaited her companion’s answer to her riddle and John wondered with perhaps equal if not more fascination –however reluctantly admitted– whether those little sparks were reflections of the fire or if they truly sprang from the infinite depths of those warm –and softened?– brown orbs.   

“As round as an apple..” Mr. Bell murmured, pensively lifting his gaze up to the ceiling.

“As round as an apple, as deep as a cup, and all the King’s horses can’t pull it up.” Miss Hale provided, her tone melodious to accommodate the rhyme. 

“Well, my dear, I do believe you have beaten me at last-” Mr. Bell’s expression morphed from jovial defeat to victorious in a matter of seconds and he clasped his hands together in delight, “Ha! It’s a well, of course!”

Miss Hale’s lips curved in a radiant smile, dimples appearing in her cheeks before she quipped, “ _Well_ done, guardian.”

Mr. Bell chuckled good-humoredly, wringing his hands eagerly as Miss Hale made somewhat of a show of surrendering the book to him now it was her turn again to have her wit tested.    

John despised himself for feeling so torn between wanting to remain where he was or being included in the little game the two had been engaging in ever since he had started telling Mr. Hale, or rather had tried to _convince_ him of the perfect ingenuity of Arkwright’s carding engine. Although a willing and sincere listener, Mr. Hale, as was his wont, generally tended to agree or at least withhold from too severe criticism –however honest or just– whenever John couldn’t hold back the enthusiasm he felt grow stronger with every minute detail he described. Fueled by his genuine passion for the invention that made working with raw cotton possible in a way his predecessors could have only dreamed of, John had entertained hopes the intensity rather than the topic would have evoked his tutor’s daughter to participate. To listen. But she had not. In nothing could he detect he had excited even a sliver of interest in what he had to say.

Instead, she and Mr. Bell had soon averted their attention to their game of riddles once the latter discovered the book behind the young woman’s cushion, tucked out of sight with haste at their entering perhaps and out of embarrassment for being caught reading children’s tales, and it had only led them to quickly recall how they had engaged in it before; the last time they had met and Miss Hale had been but a little girl of eight.  

Now, with Mr. Hale having left his side to inquire if his wife was recovering from the headache that had plagued her all day due to the oncoming transition of spring to summer and which had consequently prevented her from joining them this evening, John wasn’t sure what to do with himself. A sensation he wasn’t very familiar with. His companions, though of course at the moment they could hardly be called that, ignored him like he was the ogre in the room they either purposefully neglected or their eyes unconsciously didn’t stray to.

And so he just sat there, a silent and brooding witness of that undeniably enviable scene. Their natural and effortless way of communicating, the sheer ability to forget everything around them and of being so absorbed in their little game, both irritated him, for he was inadvertently left out, as well as kindled an instinctual and overwhelming desire to join in.

Overhead John could hear a chair scraping the floorboards and the shuffle of feet following it told him Mr. Hale would soon return now his duty to his wife was fulfilled but he was only half aware of it when the old scholar finally decided with an enigmatic hum which riddle he was going to challenge his goddaughter with. Regardless of being a part of their ritual or not, it was contagious to want to figure out the answer for himself and at the same time there was something exceedingly gratifying in the way Miss Hale would more often than not pretend she had forgotten that which had been clearly retained from childhood memories and he could almost see those afternoons in the garden or evenings in front of the hearth as much as he now experienced all the more the omission of those in his own life. Perhaps the jealousy he felt stir within him had its roots in the blithe, carefree moments she had had and he had lacked.  

“In marble walls as white as milk. Lined with a skin as soft as silk; within a fountain crystal clear, a golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold. Yet things break in and steal the gold.” Mr. Bell read out loud with an exaggerated air of mystery, pulling John back from his deepening thoughts; thoughts that had caused him to neglect to acknowledge Mr. Hale’s friendly and somewhat apologetic squeezing of his eyes as he reentered the drawing room and sank down in the chair next to his.  

The happy glint gathering in Miss Hale’s eyes, however, postponed a continuation of the conversation he had been having with his host a little longer, effectively chasing away any remainder of his gloom as it did and simultaneously betraying that she knew the answer. 

“Egg.” She stated assuredly, not even waiting for confirmation but holding her hands out palm up to receive the book once more. For a moment there was only the sound of ruffling pages as she consulted it, then she cleared her throat in a strangely triumphant way once she had evidently found what she had been looking for.

“Black within and red without. Four corners round about.”

Perhaps it was because he had been steadily losing his patience and consequently the power to withhold from meddling in their game but before he could stop himself John refrained from turning to Mr. Hale to resume his talk with him, inquire after Mrs. Hale’s headache as he really should do, and had opened his mouth and answered out loud instead of just in his head.

“Chimney.”

Two pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. It was impossible to decipher the look Miss Hale gave him; it could be reproachful and yet also one of intrigue at the same time. Or maybe she was simply surprised to find him there in the room with them, as well as the least likely person to participate in a game of riddles.

Gaze interlocked with his tutor’s daughter it was, predictably, Mr. Bell who recovered first, “How like you, Thornton, to guess that one. Who else but a mill master of Milton. You are, after all, the expert on chimneys.”

“No more than any other men.” John grumbled back, not inclined in the least to take that ambivalent compliment, and coming from a man too who had forsaken his roots to lecture lofty, ethereal matters instead of concerning himself with the finer but infinitely more concrete details of the industry that had made his hometown what it was today.

“Oh come, come. No need for false modesty. I daresay you feel a sense of pride in sending up all that _parliamentary_ smoke.”

John didn’t respond immediately, he merely sat straighter instead of leaning back in his chair again and stared at the floor for a moment before suggesting tersely, “I doubt Miss Hale would appreciate it if we pursued that particular topic-”

“Perhaps I would if you would care to explain it so I can actually understand what you are talking about.” Miss Hale broke in, the tone of her voice alone indicative of how she didn’t appreciate being used to deflect the need for a certain direction the conversation was heading for. Nor, it seemed, had she picked up on the fact that he had wanted to spare her further boredom as she had so clearly not been interested in his earlier –admittedly lengthy- soliloquy on an invention he still felt a boyish fascination for and he had most definitely not intended to imply the topic was beyond her comprehension.

To John’s chagrin Mr. Bell, perhaps gleaning his expression darkening, had taken it upon himself to elaborate before he had a chance to. It took considerable effort of will to stay seated silently and not either interrupt the man or get to his feet and stalk off.

Stubbornly refusing to have her continued misunderstanding of him lead him to lose his temper like he had done that day in the mill in front of Miss Hale, and give her additional reasons, though she seemed to find them without his assistance, to dislike him even more, he remained where he was, jaw clenched and staring once again at the floor. 

When Mr. Bell finished and Miss Hale nevertheless looked to him, expressly so even –the hairs in his neck had prickled and made him look up to find her eyes trained expectantly on him-, to confirm the accuracy of what her godfather had told her, John was glad he had listened to reason instead of giving way to emotions threatening to get the better of him.

He nodded curtly, “I believe Mr. Bell has given you a sound, if somewhat circuitous, account of the situation. As industries like the one I am involved in develop it is only logical it attracts the _watchful_ eye of parliament.”

Miss Hale’s brows arched at the slight snarl embedded in the emphasis he had put on that word.

“You do not approve of this?” She somehow managed to sound both curious and unmistakably haughty.

“It is not my place to either approve or disapprove. I do not mind surveys and inspections, only a fool would dismiss the opportunity to show progress made, as well as lay bare and attempt to solve the flaws that are still there, causing mischief. But I do find it hard to justify why a butcher is entitled to tell a baker how to bake his bread when that meddling more often than not does not improve the bread, nor the situations of those that either make or eat it.”

Although her eyes briefly narrowed in annoyance at the simplification of the argument, Miss Hale did not let it stop her from weighing in, “That would sound like wisdom but I cannot help but feel that there would be no or considerably less need for a butcher to explain a baker its business if the baker would be of a more conscientious disposition, would be…more _transparent_.”

“Are you saying all masters are not only willfully secretive, they are also without conscience?”

“Not secretive perhaps-”

“But the other claim stands?” John interjected incredulously, but Miss Hale plunged on seemingly unaffected though her eyes flashed brightly for a moment.

“-but solely focusing on serving their own interests so it has become less appealing to think of others caught up in that process. To view with animosity the very notion of allowing less interested parties to access their domain and have the power to reform. To consider parliament’s actions an encroachment on your independence rather than an evaluation of your relationship with those that depend on you and you depend on in return.”

“That may be so, but I fail to see how useful, how _practical_ advise can come from a surveyor that, as I believe you mistakenly deem unpartisan, has their own interests to serve, that would interfere without knowledge of what he is interfering with.”

“But you would agree that that knowledge you speak of is not only the master’s exclusive property?”

He had only made to tilt his head as he pondered her question but she already took it as an affirmation and continued hotly, “Is it not therefor fairer to have an outsider judge both you and your workers and investigate if there’s any truth in what each has to say about the other? To broker peace in a war that has no real foundation for being fought in the first place? That surely can only lead to more strife or impossible stalemates that causes everyone to suffer?”

“If this outsider could be as neutral as you make him out to be, yes, I agree, but they are rarely so.” He replied rather coolly, her volley of biting remarks testing his patience more and more.

“So the mere suspicion of partiality makes you would rather deprive your employees of obtaining a voice and continue to repress it with your fellow masters?” She retorted indignantly.

“No, I would not. I would have them trust those that lead them to make the right decision, they have after all the higher vantage point.” He explained with forced calm, beginning to suspect it might have been that Gibson fellow that had been putting ideas into her mind concerning workers’ right and the tyranny of masters.

She scoffed at him, “I am sure most men would prefer to see the view for themselves rather than rely on the description of it by someone who considers himself literally and figuratively above them!”

“No, that is not the case-” John started, shaking his head, but Miss Hale overrode him.

“Of course, there isn’t enough room at the top of your pyramid, a pharaoh requires obedient slaves not independent workers eloquent enough to tell you and the world their side of the story.”

Margaret was barely able to keep her voice steady, the fresh memory of the Gibson family’s misery making her heart throb and although she tried to keep a clear head, their guest’s stoic disposition prevented her from succeeding at that increasingly more difficult task.  She deliberately did not meet her father’s gaze which she could feel upon her, nor did she pay any heed to Mr. Bell’s soft scraping of his throat as if of half a mind to intervene. Like herself, Mr. Thornton seemed just as unwilling to acknowledge the two men’s non-verbal efforts to steer the conversation back into less tempestuous currents.

“You misconstrue my meaning, Miss Hale. I grant you that a mill’s skeleton is hierarchical in nature, that it is in a way very much like a beehive and yes it does require each bee to perform their task so as not to upset the balance which would be in their own interest too; but the queen plays no more important a role than her workers, she has a task and shares in the work like her subjects. She is not more secure in her position as are her drones.”

“I doubt she would surrender her position easily. _Willingly_. Nor accept her subjects to climb on her throne to rule with her. Power makes for isolationists, and fear of losing it might turn a good man into a corrupt one if the system in which he finds himself goads him in that direction, teaches him that as long as he keeps those beneath him ignorant and uneducated that this will make him more deserving of a higher position regardless of the fact that it was determined by mere chance or.. or cunning.”

Margaret balled her hands into fists as they lay in her lap, the fabric of her dress caught in their vine like grasp. Only when she thought she could discern hurt gathering in Mr. Thornton’s deep blue eyes did the venom seeping through her words affect herself. A sharp pang that made her blood suddenly rush in regret rather than irritation. 

“It is hardly cunning that has helped me obtain my current position.” Mr. Thornton began, his voice trembling slightly, “I owe everything to my mother’s firmness of character and guidance. When.. When my father..” He paused, eyes flitting briefly down before he resolutely met hers again and resumed with his subdued voice wholly contradicting the conviction and determination that radiated off of him, “I was still at school when my father passed away, leaving my mother to deal with both the bank and dozens of duped investors clamoring for whatever sum they had lost. We, of course, had nothing to give them but promises that one day their cases would be settled. And they were. But only because my mother never wavered. We left Milton and exchanged the growing and prosperous town for a very different life in the small village of Chester. Through an acquaintance I managed to get a job at a local draper shop, coincidentally learning much in the years following of the trade I am now engaged in. Still, if she had not taught me to live soberly, to save half my wage even though we had barely enough to live on, I do not think I would ever really have understood the responsibility that comes with money and how saving it as an investment for the future, to right my father’s wrongs, if indeed he had been at fault, and build myself a career was the result of my own hard work and perseverance, not that of convenient privilege or willful deceit. I would therefore also only have myself to blame if I failed to maintain the position I am now in.”

Margaret inadvertently unclenched her fingers and it was her turn to lower her gaze. She swallowed hard and felt her cheeks starting to burn; she found it impossible to trace her rising color to either shame, anger or remorse, and a confusing mix of those and perhaps other emotions crowded in her heart, making it throb harder against its cage of ribs.

Desirous of breaking the tense silence following Mr. Thornton’s personal story with a very uncomfortable and pressing sense of urgency, she stirred herself from her shocked state. Even though no words came to her mind yet, Margaret gathered her courage to look up, face Mr. Thornton again, but even before she had opened her mouth her father forestalled her by speaking first.

“Let us not force Mr. Thornton to relive more painful memories, no matter how conducive to the argument or how much his past conduct and open manner in speaking about it is a credit to his present self. We have already gone from pharaohs to bees, Margaret, for all one knows there be dragons next..!” He sounded sincerely apologetic to his guest but Margaret almost cringed at the uncharacteristically exasperated tone he directed at herself.

Bereft of steam, it seemed both she and Mr. Thornton a little jarringly adjusted to the sudden standstill of their heated debate.

“I am sorry, father.” She eventually all but whispered, evoking a supportive _hum_ from her guardian next to her and causing her father’s eyes to immediately soften again, all reproach gone.  

“The fault is mine as well. I apologize.”

Came Mr. Thornton’s rather terse but seemingly genuine plea for forgiveness as he cast a look at his host and friend. When he reverted it back to rest at her again her soon after though, Margaret felt her heart skip an involuntary beat and she instinctively braced herself for what he would say to her.   

“I hope, Miss Hale, that you will allow me to add as a final note that others before me, those lords of cottons, may have been the autocrats you described, but I hope we have moved away or are moving away from that now. Perhaps you would deign to no longer deny me to be the _homo faber_ I hope to be and make me out to be a _homo economicus_ like my predecessors instead.”

Knowing she should not risk upsetting her father, with his sensitive disposition he was prone to feel any dissonance acutely, Margaret’s pride was nevertheless instantly piqued by the anything but covert choice of words that not so subtly painted her a stubborn despot of sorts and she bit out before she could stop herself, “I’m not making you into anything, you have clearly made yourself in this world, Mr. Thornton.”

His blue eyes glinted like steel at this and he retorted swiftly, “No doubt mercilessly trampling others in the process without looking back once or offer a hand to help them up and join me on my way to the top without viewing them as competition, if your version of me is to be believed.”

“My belief is merely based on what you show me of yourself.” She answered, feeling once again her face reddening steadily as she but all too clearly remembered, word for word almost, Mr. Thornton’s very honest confessions about his personal history.

“Which does not naturally mean it is truer when your perception is influenced by the way you wish to see me, nay, have already _decided_ how to see me.” Mr. Thornton said, his tone an inexplicable mix of frustration and something sounding like raw hurt.

“I assure you I have no wish to see you in any way but who you are, you ascribe me a blindness I am sure I do not possess.” Margaret nevertheless defended herself, pointedly redirecting her eyes to study with a disproportionate intensity the book of riddles laying abandoned on the sofa, reaching out for it so her fingers could aimlessly flick through the yellowed and stained pages.

This time it was Mr. Bell who hurriedly interrupted now their argument threatened to be rekindled, “No, indeed, I am sure Mr. Thornton was not suggesting that all, Margaret dear. –the hardened glint in Mr. Thornton’s blue eyes obviously contradicted this but he said nothing so Mr. Bell went on unperturbed– Though, to be sure,  the thick, perpetual  fog in this town would make me forgive you on the spot for walking into a person or two. I can’t see my hands in front of my face half the time and walked into Mr. Latimer like a blind man only this morning!”

Mr. Bell chortled in his charismatic way even though Mr. Hale hardly responded to it and, to John’s somewhat vindictive pleasure, Miss Hale was immune to its effects too. In fact, she seemed to not have even heard him.

Not giving up, Mr. Bell continued good-humoredly, “Now let us steer away from battling on the distinction what species my tenant belongs to, any further dissection must be saved for a time when you have perhaps a little more light at your disposal, what do you say Margaret?”

She stirred now he had addressed her directly and dipped her chin to her chest though it was clear her mind was still elsewhere.

“Besides, I daresay it does have me wondering where it leaves poor _homo ludens_ me?” Mr. Bell quipped, adopting a light-hearted tone as he looked around for sympathy.

_It leaves you loitering in colleges_ , John thought to himself but kept wisely silent. Mr. Hale laughed a modest but appreciative laugh while Miss Hale finally roused herself from her pensive state at Mr. Bell’s remark and she at last gave him her full attention; lips curving in a somewhat restrained but radiant smile nonetheless.

“I would rather cast you as a sphynx instead, just as playful and fond of games, but infinitely more ancient, always pondering the mysteries of the universe, so ravenous for answers I’m afraid our discussion could have hardly saturated you.”

“You’re mistaken, dear one, I assure you. In fact, I found it…most informative.” Mr. Bell replied smartly, adding with a jovial wink, “Though you may have betrayed your true, pixie, nature just now with your sly comment on my ripened age. Still sharp enough to know when I am being told I am old.”  

Mr. Hale hummed a bemused _hum_ and Miss Hale’s smile widened, “I stand corrected. And, I also believe you are right guardian, we had better simply agree to disagree, postpone or perhaps even give up on analyzing each other’s truths lest we should involuntarily imply the other a liar. I suppose the only thing we have in common is that we are human!”

It was clear in the way she said it -harmless as her intention may be- that the ‘we’ she mentioned referred to the two of them. To _him_. After all, she seemed to have no propensity to clash with Mr. Bell whatsoever nor, naturally, desirous of being at odds with her father.  

“And that is more than enough surely to drink tea together, with perhaps more peaceful conversation?” Mr. Hale added hopefully.

Having been silent the entire time John felt rather than saw Mr. Hale’s eyes directed tentatively at him now. He needed a moment to swallow down his hurt pride, then nodded for he found it impossible still to speak. 

After that curt but eagerly accepted gesture conversation flowed on again, mainly between Mr. Hale and Mr. Bell, the latter informing the former of any Oxford news he had not yet passed on. John found it hard to shake off a restless sensation that kept him from finding, or indeed even looking, for an opening in the stream of words passing between the two other men so that he could join their talk, even though Mr. Hale most of all was clearly making an effort to include him in it.

Instead John caught himself more than once following Miss Hale’s movements as she wordlessly had gotten to her feet and busied herself with the tea tray, arranging and rearranging the cups and saucers and spoons with no apparent purpose. He knew he shouldn’t stare – _admire_ – her now so openly, especially after their tumultuous debate his mother would no doubt label as improper if not downright scandalous, though he wasn’t sure even she could acquit him of any blame when he had been as agitated and rude as Miss Hale had.

He half expected to feel frustration flaring up inside him as he watched her in silence, it would be justified alone by the snappish remarks she had flung in his direction, but instead he felt a burning regret. What he wouldn’t do to evoke a smile instead of a snarl; to have a pair of softly gleaming brown eyes turn to him in interest instead of glare in repugnance and dislike.  How did Mr. Bell receive her approval, friendship even, for his witty banter, and he got bared fangs as if he wasn’t capable of valuing her strong opinions, as misinformed as some of them might be, but only sought to challenge them and by extension, challenge _her_. Why was he yearning to understand her and be understood _by_ her when she showed no inclination that she harbored a similar wish?

John had been so captivated by Miss Hale’s nimbleness and ease of movement as she handled the dainty ware, her bracelet shining a dull coppery tint as it dangled around her wrist, that he only became aware of Mr. Bell and Mr. Hale rising when the first made to take his leave.

He got to his own feet just in time to at least pretend he had heard the man’s elaborate farewell and accepted his outstretched hand to firmly shake it once. Only when Mr. Hale preceded his old college friend to the landing did John realize he had missed the opportunity to excuse himself as well and accompany his landlord on his way out of the house. Not that, it seemed, Mr. Hale had expected him to take his leave also, no doubt connected to their habit of not cutting short their lessons when the topic demanded more time and expansion, as it so often did.

Grateful for Mr. Hale treating him like a longstanding family friend, John was of half a mind to nevertheless follow the two men but he felt torn between leaving or seizing this rare opportunity of being alone with Miss Hale to quench their –what appeared a growing and ongoing– conflict once and for all; to cut the threads of that cobweb he felt they were trapped in and the trembling of which would only lure the spider perilously closer. He wasn’t sure whose demise it would herald once and if the arachnid closed in on its prey, but he did know that he wanted to end their animosity and replace it with the possibility of a mutual understanding –if it was not too late already for that–, for his own peace with himself alone if for nothing else.

The creaking of a floorboard underfoot alerted Margaret that she was not the only one in the room. She cast an apprehensive look over her shoulder and found Mr. Thornton still there, taking a determined step towards her. Why he had lingered when she had assumed he would be making his way downstairs with her father and Mr. Bell was beyond her. Surely, after their disastrous conversation he could have no wish to ever speak to her again. She knew she would be glad to have him gone and her thoughts no longer dwelling on both his tragic story she had forced him to relate, nor the accusatory edge to his voice as he had informed her in no uncertain terms how wrong she was.

Margaret turned to face him and for a moment he simply stood there and they gazed at each other wordlessly, reminding her of the first time they met in that Hotel on New Street.

Far less inclined to wait patiently this time, Margaret had made to open her mouth when Mr. Thornton suddenly held out his hand to her and said unwaveringly, “I won’t pretend to hope we will soon agree with one another, but let us settle on a truce, in the hope our differences will not always overshadow our similarities.”

Taken aback by the sudden offer of what he must intend to be an olive branch, Margaret looked from his hand to his piercing eyes fixed on her, then gave in to a wave of inexplicable but overwhelming embarrassment and turned her back on him, not knowing what else to do.

There was silence, tense and seemingly crackling the very air between them. She stood unmoving, as did he for there was no sound of the floor creaking, indicating his departure no matter how hard she strained her ears and impossibly willed them to hear it. Margaret rather pointlessly stared at the lumps of sugar in their fragile bowl, glistening like crystals, but it was impossible not to spur herself into motion and slowly turn around once more when Mr. Thornton spoke again.  

“Miss Hale? Was I mistaken in thinking you would prefer peace?”

She was careful not to look at him directly but instead focused on the hand he still held out to her. The fact that he persisted made something wriggle uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. What did he mean by it? His obvious and what she suspected might actually be his sincere determination to make amends, to wipe the slate clean, effectively took her breath away from her and she could not fathom why he was so resolved to heal the alleged breach. After all, annoyed she may have been by his arguments, as well as the manner in which he had expressed them, they had had no friendship to lose in speaking so frankly.   

Wanting to answer him far more decisively than she in truth felt, to say _something_ now they stood there as if frozen in time, Margaret opened her mouth then almost instantly closed it again as her gaze flitted down to rest on the sugar bowl in her hands. She had no recollection of having picked it up before facing Mr. Thornton a second time and reproached herself inwardly for being every bit the scatterbrain her father would occasionally accuse her of being, no matter how fond his tone always was as he said it.

The sounds of the front door closing and her father’s footsteps on the stairs drifted up and into the room, startling her. She looked up at Mr. Thornton, wanting to apologize in her own way without the need of clasping hands but he had apparently given up and decided to retreat his hand. He was like a blur of black and maroon as he passed her, barely stopping on the landing to bid his goodbye to her father while she still stood there, rather forlorn all of a sudden, sugar bowl almost comically in her hands: an offer to the ghost of a man that was no longer there. 


End file.
